DC Metro Moms

Death, And Other Fun Topics To Explain To Your Preschooler

The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out, they eat your guts and then spit them out...

Recently, my three-and-a-half-year-old and I visited a friend with dogs.  Make that "dog:" one passed away a few months ago.  As we pulled up to the house, Pumpkin remembered where we were.  "Mom, this is the house with the two doggies."  Uh-oh. 

"Um, that's sort of right, Pumpkin.  There used to be two dogs," I told her, hoping, naively, she'd just accept that simple answer. 

"What happened to the other doggy?" she asked.  So much for simple answers.

Remembering advice I'd read years ago, I frantically searched for the Right Answer, the one that would be both most satisfying to the preschooler but offer the least graphic information.  "Well.  That doggy went to Doggy Heaven."  Brilliant.  A pat Family Circus-type answer that was sure to confuse even the most in-the-know child.  Because the next question, inevitably, was...

"Where is Doggy Heaven?"     

I'm Quitting Costco

I hate Costco. 

Maybe that's not quite accurate.  I hate mosquitos, going to the dentist, and mayonnaise.  I detest Costco.  I'm pretty sure that if Dante's Inferno had been written in the 21st century, Costco would have been in there as the tenth circle of hell.

Surviving Three

Pumpkin, my three-year-old, is three.  She's very, very three.  Have you met a three-year-old?  Do you own one of these?  Are you lucky enough to have a child that is not yet three, or, better yet, has survived being three?  Because if you do, I'd really, really like to know about it.

Tina Fey was on David Letterman recently.  When he asked about her four-and-a-half-year-old daughter, Tina talked about how much fun it was to have a child that age: they say funny things, they ask good questions... but also, "they stop being little three-year-old jerks."  Ah.  Here is a woman who speaks my language.  

Puke-ahontas -

How can you describe true, unconditional love?  Many a poet has undertaken this task throughout time, so I won't insult their efforts with my own trite stab at it.  But I will give you a summary from a new perspective, learned last night: true love is letting your barfing preschooler snuggle up against you, her hair wet with chunky puke, while she lapses in and out of viral consciousness, waking up to occasionally spew her guts all over you.  And on that note, hey -- what's for breakfast?!

For the first time in her three-and-a-half-year-old life, Pumpkin came down with a nasty stomach virus last night.  She's had vomiting instances before, like when she'd eat dairy and her system rejected it, but this was the first real bout with a gastro bug.  She went to bed just fine, but around 11:30, I awoke to the sound of her frantic crying.  I went in to check on her, not turning on the light, and ran my hand down her face.  It was unmistakably goopy, and so I braced myself as I reached for the light switch.  I knew what this was, and gah, one of my worst fears about parenting was about to be realized: the puke.   

Potty Training in 5 Years or Less: The Loser Mom's Guide

It's been a shitty week here at Funk Manor, and I mean that literally, for we are in the throes of potty training.  Pumpkin, our three and a half year old, is still getting the hang of this whole eliminating-in-the-toilet thing, and the training?  It is slow and painful.  Fortunately, our son is seven months old, and as the hubs and I like to joke, maybe he'll be able to train his sister soon.  I joke, because if I didn't, I'd cry.

I'd always been told not to force potty training, that I should just follow my child's lead and when she showed interest, she'd be ready.  So when she exhibited some toilet curiosity when she was a year and a half, I decided to capitalize on it.  I bought her her own potty, which, for the next year and a half, was mainly used to store her toys and other treasures.  Then, one day, she took our word that you could actually pee on it, no, really, you can, and by God, one day, she went and peed on the darn thing.  We praised her like she'd just discovered a cure for the common cold.

But two years later, here we are, still not potty trained.  And I have continued to not force it, because The Experts say forcing it is the worst thing you can do.  But now I wonder, is it?  Or is having to change your Pull-Up before you hit a keg party with your sorority sisters the worst thing?  Because at this rate, that's where we're headed.

I Survived Preschool Registration and Lived to Tell About It

God, I am so naive.  Pre-parenting, I vowed never to let my children watch television or let a non-organic speck of food pass through their sweet lips.  (These days, as I pick up handfuls of Cheetos from the living room rug while my kids zone out in front of "Special Agent Oso," I think about that and laugh.  Inwardly.  Because outwardly, I'm busy chastising my older child to not lick the television while I'm fishing out petrified Pop-Tart pieces from my younger child's mouth.)

Among other things it turns out I was wrong, oh, so very wrong about, was preschool.  I mean, it wasn't like your kid had to take SATs or anything.  All you had to do was pick a cute-looking school, hand over a small check every month, and sit back and relax.  Right?  Wrong.  Oh, so very wrong.  I knew that at some point in my parenting career, I'd be using the words "first choice school," "waitlisted," and "safety school."  I just -- naively -- assumed I'd be using them in conjunction with college applications.

As it turns out, you don't just register for preschool.  Instead, you make a list of the open houses you want to attend, try to find out which schools your friends are considering, spread rumors about your favorite schools so as to eliminate competition, gather blank checks for application fees, and most importantly, save your appetite for all the donuts you will be offered at open houses. 

Parking Wars in Post-Snowpocalyptic Times

"He's got the good spot in front of the good building in the good neighborhood.  I know he's not gonna wanna move." -- George Costanza, Seinfeld

Politics.  Religion.  Abortion.  All are topics you know you're not supposed to bring up in casual conversation.  But you think you've seen divisiveness?  Please.  Bring up the issue of parking spots, especially after several million tons of snow have just fallen, and you're going to see some, um, heated reactions.

We live in a historic, semi-urban neighborhood just outside of Washington, DC, where we sacrifice a lot -- living space, namely -- for the charm, beauty, and, most of all, sense of community that is abundant here.  Unfortunately, parking -- or the distinct lack thereof -- is one of the things we residents have chosen to give up.  Garages?  Non-existent.  Parking lots?  Some.  Reserved parking spaces?  None.  If you, Suburban Dweller, have a remote-controlled garage door opener, well, consider yourself lucky, and discover here how the other half lives.

Snowbound and Teetering on the Edge of Sanity

"Roads closed, pipes frozen, albinos...virtually invisible. The National Weather Service has upgraded Springfield's blizzard from "Winter Wonderland" to a "Class 3 Kill-Storm"!"  -- Kent Brockman, "The Simpsons"

When I received Arlington County's email alert last Thursday advising residents to be prepared to shelter in place for three to five days, I smirked.  Here in DC, we're well-known for our propensity to panic at the first sign of a snowflake.  If the forecast calls for flurries, you can bet that every retail outlet in the metro area will soon run out of milk, bread, and toilet paper.

Only this time, it wasn't a joke.  We got hit, hard, last Friday, amassing nearly 30 inches of snow.  It was awesome, and not in a good way.  And then, just as we were in the midst of unburying ourselves, we got hit again.  Hard.  The blizzard that began yesterday is nearly over tonight, but we reportedly received another 15 or so inches.  Finding ways to stay sane when snowbound for days on end with two small children in a tiny house has been challenging, to say the least.  Oh, who am I kidding?  It has SUCKED, big-time. 

Please, God, don't make us have another snow day

They're predicting more snow for us beleaguered folks in the mid-atlantic region.  

Really?  Do we need more?  We still have snow on the ground from our last snow storm, three days ago.  And during that storm, there was still snow on the ground from the storm before that one.  I know, I know... it could be worse.  I shouldn't complain, because other places get way more snow than we do.  But I don't live in those other places.  I live here in DC, and it's not supposed to snow this much.  And I want to complain.  (And I think all the italics accentuate my whininess.)   

I know that kids aged 5-18 are probably giddy over the prospect of yet another day off from school.  I loved a good snow day (way) back in my school days, too.  But now that I'm a parent, snow days have a different meaning for me.  Meaning: no school, no playgroup, and seemingly endless hours of coming up with ways to ward off boredom.

The first time it happened this season, it was a novelty.  Great expectations arose: We'll stay indoors in our jammies!  We'll cuddle, read books, make pancakes!  We'll play in the snow and warm up inside with hot chocolate!  And then we got back to our real life, because, though we all love each other dearly, we need some space.

Mom vs. Wild

I don't watch a lot of television, but when I do, it tends to be of the reality variety.  Not of the "Bachelorette" oeuvre, exactly, but more in the TLC/Discovery/National Geographic vein.  Crab fishermen, in general, do not pique my interest, but cut and splice the most dangerous parts, put them to dramatic music and title it "Deadliest Catch," and, well, you've got some compelling television programming.

One of my very favorite reality shows is "Man vs. Wild."  And if you know me, you know that's a head scratcher.  I like my creature comforts; to me, "roughing it" is a hotel without room service.  Bear Grylls?  He eats bugs and drinks his own pee.  For me, the allure of the show is experiencing the very things I don't have to endure.  I like my comfortable, albeit mundane, life.  Yeah, it can get a little boring sometimes, but when I stop to think about it, perhaps life as a mom is more like a wilderness survival adventure than I realized.

Take, for example, the entrapment trauma I endured last week.  Heading out to a playdate, I loaded three-year-old Pumpkin into the backseat.  As she climbed into her car seat, I attempted to stick baby Croc's infant seat into the base.  Just then, my hand slipped, and one of my fingers got wedged in between the seat and the base, just as it all snapped together.  My hand was totally stuck, and the pain was extreme.  I tried not to freak Pumpkin out, but holy hell, it was excruciating, and the hand I needed to extricate myself was trapped.  What would Bear do, I wondered?  The solution came to me like a flash, and I decided to gnaw my own hand off to save myself.  Ok, I didn't, but I COULD have if I needed to.  I'm a wilderness survivalist!