DC Metro Moms

It Isn't, It Wasn't, Oh No You Didn't

Call me a bitch.  Go ahead.  Call me a fucking bitch.  Call me a mommyblogger, a housewife, workforce dropout, soccer mom, Betty Crocker, Donna Reed, carpool Cathy, narcissist, petty, neurotic, a pearl-clutcher, a baby maker, a whiner, a wino.  Call me fat.  Call me (gasp!) the c word.  I don't care.  I probably won't flinch.  Heck, plead a good case and I'll probably agree with you. 

Just do not, under any circumstances, hand me a large bill and then tell me

"It is what it is."

If you do, I'll cut you.

Mourning the Metro

Today, six persons lost their lives when simply coming home from work on the good ol' Metro.  76 or more were injured.  I know that you join me in extending your deepest sympathy to the victims' families and prayers that the injured recover fully. 

As DC-area citizens, we're shaken by this, more than if a similar tragedy had occurred on the Beltway or other transportation mode. The Metro is emblematic of Washington, DC. For those of us that grew up in this area as children or young adults striking out on our own, it is how we discovered the District. And the jammed cell phone lines, worried e-mails and mobs of people walking home can't help but remind us of 9/11.

I feel like so much of my eleven years of DC life have been lived on the Metro.  When I arrived here in 1998 from San Francisco for a job on the Hill, I had only an unfurnished apartment found over the Internet, two suitcases, a cat and a Metro card sent by my employer's office manager. I picked up the keys to my place, dropped off the bags and cat, and jumped on the Red Line at Dupont Circle to time how long it would take me to get to my job the next morning. When I reached Union Station and burst through the doors framing the view of the iconic Capitol Dome, I felt just like Jimmy Stewart. I was scared to death, but getting a handle on my Metro route made me feel like I could take this town.  The familiar pattern of my walk to and from the Metro each day made sense of the new chaos.

Children Deserve the Best of Parents, Even in the Worst of Times

Last week, Katie Couric, CBS News and USA Today ran a series that felt like a punch to the gut, Children of the Recession.  Taking a hard look at how the economic woes are affecting our nation's children, this series showed that the realities children in families in economic crisis face.  These kids are not simply dealing with less toys, moving to a smaller home, a more modest lifestyle...

Many kids are bearing the brunt of their parents' hopelessness with the economy as victims of child abuse. 

In this Children of the Recession segment on CBS News, reporter Sandra Hughes reports that Phoenix Children's Hospital has seen a 40% increase since last year in child abuse incidents, and hospital staff says that the severity of the cases are dramatically increasing.  Phoenix has been hit very hard by the recession, and now its children are, literally, being hit hard too. 

Amongst all my newspaper/Internet/financial TV news watching, I never would have dreamed of this fall out.  But though horrifying, I have to admit that a part of me felt guilty when watching this report.  For though I don't physically harm my kids, when I am stressed I know they feel it.  I am more quick to raise my voice, I show them less patience, I engage less thoroughly in the activities that bring them joy.  These behaviors do not make me proud. 

My Computer Has A Virus & I'm Wondering What the Spies Think of Me

My computer has a Trojan horse virus - a hidden spyware that infected my system when I downloaded some seemingly-useful software.  I have my suspicions on how I was infected (yes, I'm glaring at you Adobe Air-Flash-like download supposedly for Tweetdeck), and I'm trying my damnedest to find the virus through anti-spyware programs.  I'm combing through my files and registry like a mother whose darling child was sent home with lice.  But I have yet to catch the bastard. 

Sure, I'm completely irked that my computer is moving more slowly than a Smith-Corona word processor circa 1992.  And yes, I'm worried about my household's security and privacy while the spyware lurks, and the financial burden of replacing the computer if this parasite wrecks irreparable damage.  But there's another question that's nagging my brain:

I wonder what the crooked creep or shady company behind this spyware thinks of my web activity. 

Are you a Bert or an Ernie?

My mother developed a theory while watching Sesame Street with me and my sister in the '70s and '80s:

Everyone is either a Bert or an Ernie.

You're either an extrovert or an introvert.  The cut-up or the straight man.  The life of the party or the designated driver.  The long-sufferer in silence or the squeaky wheel that gets the grease.  Yin or yang.  Laurel or Hardy.  Lucy or Ethel.  Blair or Serena.  Maverick or Goose. In Rebecca Wells's Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood, the Gone with the Wind-loving protagonist classifies girlfriends as either Scarletts or Melanies.  Neither personality type is better or more preferable than the other, however determining a person's Muppet make-up is helpful in understanding his or her social dynamics and behaviors.  Bert- or Ernieness insight is especially helpful in families. 

My children won't be on your airplane - you can thank the economy

Last year, we were that family on your airplane.  The ones pleading with the ticket agents to seat us together and arriving late due to a lost blankie in the security line, the ones with two kids constantly crying, the owners of the portable DVD player blasting Dora and Diego for a solid three hours.  You probably bumped into our child's head when it was hanging out in the aisle as she shamelessly nursed uncovered, and yes, we were the ones holding up the deboarding process as we tried to figure out how to open our double stroller.  Hey, you started that game of peek-a-boo - I warned you that it wasn't a good idea in the first five minutes of a cross-country flight. 

But don't worry, this year you're safe.  My family and I can't afford to all fly at once in the current economy, so my kids won't be flying the friendly skies. Don't thank me, thank Uncle Sam. 

The cost of plane tickets themselves aren't the biggest deterrent - if anything, tickets are slightly cheaper today then they were this time last year.  But tally up all the current add-on costs of air travel for a family of four, and combine it with the increased saving and reduction in credit card purchases necessary in this recessionary climate (yes Suze, I'm listening), and we just can't justify fastening four seat belts.  There's the new checked bag fees - unavoidable in a family with small children.  Then you have food that must be purchased, since meals are no longer included and your carry-on is too crammed with coloring books and diapers to fit any forms of sustenance.  And of course, there's parking at the airport, car rentals or transportation fees when you reach your destination and various other travel expenses. 

Blogging Self Doubt and Those Pesky Voices

I'm still getting the hang of this blogging thing.  It's a very weird thing, being a self-designated first-person writer.  There's no focus group data to tell you "Yes!  The public wants to hear your voice!" All you've got is a little site meter and reader comments and supportive fellow bloggers and a plucky Maya Angelou quote pinned to your deskside cork board to spur you on.  And while it is totally freeing to not have to answer to an editor and certainly exciting to self-publish, it's pretty nerve-wracking too. 

But since I'm a nutjob, I have created my own editorial board.  They're a tough bunch, and reside in dark corners of my self-esteem.  Here's the litany of saints of my blogging self-doubt that I hear every time I begin a new blog post:

St. Topicas:  What should Jessica write about?  She needs a topic that is introspective and personal and interesting, but never self-involved or pathetic or boring.  What she's started there on her screen is completely wrong.  I mean, who the heck cares that she's feeling out of shape and old and subsisting on non-fat Greek yogurt to lose weight or trying to grow out her over-plucked eyebrows?
 

Cheesy Holiday Pop Tune Love

I have a confession: I'm addicted to the local soft-rock station that plays holiday music 24-7.  In DC it's 97.1 WASH-FM, but every major city has one.  Sure, I love a good angel choir song at Midnight Mass and I invariably cry with joy the end of Oh Holy Night. But apart from the faith-bolstering music of the season, I love the seasonal cheeser pop songs too. I can't explain why, but I can't stop playing the dorky tunes this time of year, even with an iPod full of the coolest indie music an uncool mid-thirties mom can find, and a sound system that makes my mom car go boom. 

The kids are into it too.  They're learning many of the songs, and we're getting a kick out of listening to our two year old sing Mary's Boy Child with Harry Belafonte's beautiful vibrato and our five year old attempt to rap old school a la Run DMC's Christmas in Hollis.  So if you're like me and my family, please know you're not alone. Go ahead, embrace your dorkitude. And if you have just discovered the joy that is the all-holiday-all-the-time programming, here's my essential car singalong guide and reflections my kids and I have made as we drive around checking out the best front yard inflatables:

Grandma's Christmas Bonus

We're really looking forward to Christmas at my house.  We're baking cookies, lighting the Advent candles, hanging the stockings with care, decking the halls, singing along with Karen. My kids can barely contain their excitement as they count down the days 'til the baby Jesus and the man in the red suit both arrive.  I, however, am counting the down the days until the arrival of my own personal savior...Grandma.

I love my mother, absolutely.  She is always upbeat and sweet and when she visits the entire house smiles.  I love how she makes even a trip to the grocery store fun and how as an elementary school teacher, she's like the Pied Piper to my little mice.  I love having a comrade during the day when my husband's at work, someone to accompany us on fun jaunts and field trips or wile away the day making paper snowflakes.  I look forward to playing Scrabble with my mom at night with gin and tonics at our sides, or ordering up a Diane Keaton movie and popping corn.  I love how first thing in the morning, the kids run into Grandma's room for a cuddle and a story and after covering her with kisses, beg her to make her famous pancakes. 

And you can see where this is going: I'm looking forward to the free nanny service my mother provides. 

Antique adventures

My kids are obsessed with I SPY books, checking out several new eyeball adventures every library visit. I am likewise addicted to perusing the continuous stream of Anthropologie catalogs delivered to my mailbox.  (I wish I could say that I was addicted to shopping at Anthropologie, but I'm on voluntary shopping probation.)  So it's no big leap that my kids and I adore a good waltz through antique shops...the dustier and cluttered, the better.

At almost five and almost three, my kids are old enough to keep their hands firmly clasped and (mostly) abide by the strict rule of no touching as we walk through these amazing treasure troves. We avoid the stores that are super heavy on the china and crystal, and the ones where the majority of the price tags have commas. The three of us search for old, dark, dank places where happening upon a neverending story or an enchanted wardrobe seems possible.