DC Metro Moms

My Dream Birth

I've had three unmedicated births -- meaning no induction, no epidural, no C-section -- with midwives attending. Contrary to what some unkind women have said, I don't expect a medal, a cookie, an award or any other kudos for doing something billions of women have done before. I figured if God's apparent curse of a roomy pelvis and wide hips were good for anything it's birthing babies, so I decided even before getting pregnant that I'd attempt birth the natural way.

Birth is like a marathon. I'll probably never run an actual marathon, mind you, but enduring labor and delivery is my personal Olympic feat. Each of my births, especially my first, required physical and emotional training (prenatal yoga, deep breathing exercises, childbirth preparation classes). Each demanded my stamina, my focus, my all. I had no idea how long each birth would take (full disclosure: luckily, they were six, three and four hours long), but I knew that in the end I'd cross the finish line with a newborn in my arms. Plus, birth, like running, offers an amazing, empowering high. Birth provides me with such an overpowering feeling of bliss that you could call me a birth junkie.

Student-Teacher Reunion

I'm going to admit it. I was for the most part a teacher's pet -- but not in an annoying Martin Prince way -- and I have always treasured my longterm relationships with my favorite teachers, one of whom was younger than I am now when I took her seventh-grade journalism class. Last weekend, I had the rare opportunity to meet my 11th-grade English teacher, Peggy Hall, for the first time in nine years, when she and another retired teacher caught up with me on their trip to Washington D.C.

And yet even after 14 years of post-graduation friendship, I still don't feel right calling my teacher by her first name. There I was, sitting in Kramerbooks' Afterwords Cafe with my three-month-old strapped to my chest, and I felt 16 again. I'm 31, a mother of three, the bearer of many a gray hair, but this 66-year-old woman transports me to my junior year, when I was excited to learn about authors like Barabara Kingsolver, Robertson Davies and Edith Wharton in her class. After all, Ms. Hall was one of the many reasons I went on to major in English and Comparative Literature.

The (Low) Number

I've had some memorable conversations about sex. Not as many as, say, Carrie, Samantha, Miranda and Charlotte, but enough not to feel embarrassed by the subject. I remember one particular conversation, however, where I was treated like such an oddity that I paid for my drink and went home early.

Several months after having my eldest child, I left the baby home with my husband and met a bunch of  moms at a trendy restaurant for a casual "Mom's Night Out." I can't remember why (and not because I was sloshed, as my drink was a virgin), but someone started talking about "the number."
"My husband was my lucky number 13," said one mom, a woman in her late 30s. She went on to joke that it only took a dozen frogs to find her prince.

The next mom said her number was slightly lower than a Baker's Dozen: "I barely make it to double digits," she, a mama in her early 30s, coyly admitted. Then the hot mama who had just turned 40 said: "Gosh, my number is definitely in the triple digits." There was a short pause, then laughter from the table. "After all, it was the '80s, and I didn't get married until 34. That's 18 years' worth!" More laughter as she recalled some of her more anonymous encounters. After she stopped, all eyes were on me.

Minority Report: Raising "Other" Kids

I grew up in Miami -- a.k.a. the capital of of Latin America -- where being from a Spanish-speaking family is the norm, not the exception. It's not the kind of city that followers of Lou Dobbs would feel welcome in ... Spanish is the dominant language in many neighborhoods, and the Latino community is quite powerful. I never felt like a "minority." In fact, of the 800+ seniors in my high school's graduating class, at least half of the top 2% were Latinos, including the valedictorian, whose family had arrived in Miami during the Mariel boatlift.

My husband, on the other hand, grew up in a working-class suburb in central Pennsylvania. Although his parents had a relatively large circle of Chinese and Vietnamese friends, he was one of the few Asian students in his public schools. He only heard Cantonese and Vietnamese spoken in his home or at their favorite restaurants. He knew he was a "minority" from the get go, even though he never felt targeted or discriminated against.

Fourteen years after meeting in college and seven years after getting married, we now have three kids who have been called "exotic," "double minorities," or in the case of official documents, "other." Given our completely different experiences with being a minority in the United States, it often requires a good bit of introspection about identity, heritage, language, etc. to answer the sometimes insensitive, often harmless, frequently-asked question: "What are you? What are your kids?"

The Importance of Being Still

With my two New York City babies, I was out and about within 48 hours of their births. I would bundle them up, grab my favorite sling, and walk a half-block to the bodega, or around the corner to our beloved coffee shop, the Pillow Cafe. I walked to the playground, the supermarket, and in the case of itty bitty Delia, my second-born, to her older brother Elias' preschool, a brisk 15-minute stroll away.

I remember having to trek into Manhattan when Elias was eight days old to visit my then-midwives. My husband and I ate an early-bird dinner at an Upper West Side diner with E in the Baby Bjorn. All the Bubbes came over to ooh and aah over such a small bundle. Nearly three years later, I co-chaired a day-long fund-raiser at Elias' cooperative preschool when Delia was 10 days old. Again, a few people commented at how tiny she was, but no one scolded me for being out of the house. It just seemed the norm -- to me, at least -- that postpartum city mamas return to city living incredibly fast.

Now that I've had my third -- and almost certainly, last -- child (he was born March 13), I want things to go slower. This is my DC burbs babe, Jonah. He was born at home, in a completely relaxed and loving atmosphere. And for the first time in my postpartum experience, I have no desire to run out and do anything.

Reasons D.C. Doesn't Suck

Ever since moving 10 months ago, my husband and I play an incredibly unpleasant and obnoxious game whenever we miss New York. It's called "Why D.C. Sucks," and we start rattling off reasons we (at times) can't stand it here (e.g. no good "slabs" of pizza; no bodegas within walking distance of our house; no driver's ability to cope with bad weather; too many chain restaurants, etc.). I told you, it's obnoxious, but it is also cathartic when one of us is in a funk about leaving our beloved New York City behind.

Recently, however, I've found that an even better use of the game is to add the word "doesn't" before "suck."  That way I'm counting blessings instead of curses, and accentuating the positive has, well, a positive effect on my psyche. One huge reason (for me at least) that D.C. doesn't suck is that everyone I meet isn't completely consumed with money. I should confess here that I don't live in McLean, Potomac, Bethesda, Chevy Chase or Georgetown, where I imagine status (and the attainment of said status) is much more obvious and important. But here in Silver Spring, people tend to be laidback. I don't feel out of place because I don't own a $1000 stroller, wear $250 jeans, or live in a $1 million-plus home filled with top-of-the-line "commercial" appliances.

The Oscars as Family Bonding

Some families rally around college and professional sports. You know the type. They're the families where everyone watches ESPN, reads SI and can recite obscure statistics about Heisman winners and NFL/NBA/MLB Hall of Famers. Not the family I grew up in, and most likely, not the family my husband and I are creating. We don't really have a "bag" (music, art, drama, camping, scouting, pets, etc.) that unites us all in a common passion or hobby. What my siblings and I (and to a lesser extent, our spouses) do have in common is a love of movies, and in particular of the Academy Awards.

Since my brothers and sister are all at least 10 years older than I, I was the rare 8-year-old who got to stay up late on Oscar Sunday to watch the telecast. Some of our family's favorite memories are of watching the awards together, a feat which has never been easy with us being spread all over the U.S. for most of our adult lives. There was the year my sister Diana yelled "Oh My God!" and nearly fell off of the sofa when she saw a tan, long-haired and gorgeous Daniel Day-Lewis accept his trophy for "My Left Foot." She was apparently expecting someone who looked, well, a little more like the Christy Brown in the film. And then in 1999, there was an audible collective gasp, leading to immediate phone calls, when "Shakespeare in Love" beat "Saving Private Ryan" for Best Picture. Six years later, my brother and sister called to rub it in that "Crash" had topped "Brokeback Mountain," a film they deemed overrated.

The Family Historian

My grandmother was the youngest of 11 children, nine of whom lived past toddlerhood in the city of Barranquilla, Colombia (hometown heroes include Shakira, Sofia Vergara and like the rest of the country, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, who set a few of his novels there).Forever the baby of her family, my grandmother's nickname Nena (little girl), given to her at infancy, lasted all 79 years of her life. As she got older, my grandmother took it upon herself to be the family historian. Being so much younger than her oldest siblings -- she was roughly the same age as some of her nieces and nephews -- she found it easy to keep track of everyone's birthdays, baptisms, wedding anniversaries, and when it came time, deaths.

I've inherited my grandmother's knack for remembering important dates and events in my family's history. In fact, I'm probably the only one of my four siblings who knows everyone else's home address, phone numbers, anniversaries  and birthdays. But it doesn't stop there. I can vividly remember other details, whether large (when I first "met" each of my nieces and nephews) to insignificant (what my first baby gift to them was). My husband jokes that my memory is a gift, and if it is, it certainly came from my grandmother.

Foodie Resolution

Happy New Year, folks. As the new mama on the DC Metro block, I figured I would write my first post during this week of new beginnings. Last year, a group of mom pals made a list of 7 goals for '07 that they kept accountable for all year long. For 2008, I've decided to join in the fun and create 8 resolutions for 2008. Most of the resolutions are pretty typical -- lose pregnancy weight and then some post birth (I'm due with #3 in March), cook more dinners instead of just heating prepared Trader Joe's packages, read at least 20 books, etc.

But my husband and I also decided to continue a goal that we started in New York a few years ago -- to have at least one memorable dinner a month, sans kids, at a well-reviewed restaurant. In NYC this was incredibly easy, because we just made our way through the all-capped (most popular) restaurants in the Zagat's guide. But down here it's a bit trickier, as there are considerably less restaurants (period) and far more that are mini-chains, like Clyde's and Lebanese Taverna, instead of one-of-a-kind eateries. That's when Washingtonian's latest cover story, "100 Best Restaurants," came to the rescue.