DC Metro Moms

I’ll take a village. Please.

After a week home with a son who was just sick enough to have to stay home from preschool, followed by a weekend of the biggest December snow ever in D.C., I was ready to get out o’ town on Christmas Eve. The cab that took us to the airport for a week with family was driven by a man who explained that his youngest son, too ill to go out in the snow, was kept busy by his two older brothers. He gestured to my almost-four-year-old son, “He needs a brother or sister.” Ahem.

Nosy, but right. I don’t really love the dynamic the three of us have going on at home these days. Life was very different (read: much more fun) with the two other toddler cousins, their parents, and grandparents around the first half of our holiday visit. It kind of sucks that this happens only once or twice a year.

Managing three kids under four in one unfamiliar house was challenging and requiring of some adult supervision, sure. But my son was playing, all the time, and it usually didn’t involve me. This was a major bonus. I can’t even believe I’m saying this, but I actually took a nap. Twice. I might as well have been fed grapes by a golden-chested god . Three cheers for cousins!

Then we went to visit another segment of the family – the one with six cousins (plus four aunts & uncles in one house, in addition to us and to the grandparents and uncle who were staying at a nearby hotel). What was so amazing? I hardly ever had to see my kid. He was in heaven. I was in heaven.

I am a jealous friend

Hey there, Misery. I’ve got some company you haven’t met yet. They’re called my friends. May I introduce you to each other so that you feel so lonely? And so I don’t?

Lately I’ve been really making use of my green eyes and wringing my hands every time one of my buddies exudes joy just for the sake of joy or faces a challenge with an admirably brave and peaceful face. Will someone else please tell me they are having a hard time with something?

This is not the “no one understands me, I’m so dark” angst of my adolescence. I really am mostly grown up, and I’m no longer clinically depressed. I just like to know that I’m not the only one who is human. Or disappointed. Or jealous.

It’s not that I want bad things to happen to people I love. Of course not. I just have a very short tolerance for perfection, or, more accurately, for a disease I call "Failure to Complain."

Planes, trains and governors! Who am I?

"He was so good!" praised the woman sitting behind my son during our flight from Reagan National to Detroit Metro as we stood waiting to exit the plane. Usually I'm a descriptive praise sort of gal, taking my cues from Alfie Kohn about avoiding judgment terms like "good" and "bad." But seeing as the fellow passenger and judge in question was Michigan Governor Jennifer Granholm, inwardly I pumped my fist and silently hissed "Yes!"

The whole flight, which I spent with my three-year-old while his dad sat across the aisle and tucked into a window seat out of immediate earshot, I had been thinking twice about every interaction knowing that Governor Granholm might overhear me, be I chiding or sweet mommying. In the presence of such a powerful woman I respect, I wanted to appear in control and upbeat with a charming child. So I was glad to hear the governor -- who, I assume, was on some important political business, perhaps with an apparent fan of hers, the President -- give her approval of me and my son.

But I also felt confronted with a watered down version of myself, as though now that I'm largely a stay-at-home-mom, I have nothing worthwhile to say to an elected official. Where have my opinions gone? It's not like I don't have any.

Gym Childcare: Mandatory TV?

When a huge new gym with a low monthly fee opened a mile from my house, I was excited to try it out. During the tour, I asked about the TV in the childcare room. In my previous gym, the childcare worker yakked on the phone with her back to the room while the TV babysat her charges. "Well, some kids like to watch it, but it's not on all the time," the manager said.

A few days later, I filled out the forms to leave my son there and asked the childcare worker the if she could turn off the blaring 80s sitcom that neither the 10-month-old baby on the floor nor the six-year-old girl coloring at a table was watching. The staff member replied, “Sorry. It has to stay on. It’s company policy.”

I beg your pardon? That mammoth noise pollution device is a requirement for good babysitting? Mind you, this place had an indoor play area to rival Gymboree (complete with slide!), plus toys, art, and two childcare workers. What is with requiring the TV? That somehow makes the place safer? And why a sitcom? I have plenty of friends who are much less media-wary than I but still complain about TV being used too much at the gym (or the offerings being inappropriate for little eyes).

My current gym has no TV and it works great. The kids just play.

In another mom's shoes: vaccine injury really happens

Imagine your 14-year-old daughter going from a competitive cheerleader with a 4.0 average to someone who has daily seizures, partial paralysis and a drug regiment of 33 pills a day. I’ve been attending the National Vaccine Information Center’s Fourth International Public Conference on Vaccination where I learned about the plight of Gabrielle Swank, who in 2007 had an adverse reaction to the Gardasil vaccine. Because of a family history of cervical cancer, Gabrielle (pictured here in this video tribute made by a friend) wanted the vaccine, which is designed to protect women from the human papillomavirus (HPV) that is responsible for cervical cancer.

Maybe every other mom out there knows about this case or about the various adverse reactions and the 32 deaths that occurred after Gardasil clinical trials, but if they do, then I don’t understand why I still see TV ads glowing about Gardasil’s wonderful protection. After receiving the vaccine, Gabrielle had immediate side effects, including headaches, fatigue and hair loss. But without a full understanding that these could be vaccine reactions, she went on to get the second and third doses of the vaccine.  She now spends 12-20 hours a day in bed and, because of her seizures, she cannot participate in a number of activities she used to do, even when she’s feeling well. She’s been diagnosed with cerebral vasculitis, a terminal disease, and she was not able to travel from Kansas to the DC suburbs for the conference. But the teen did tape a message to the crowd, explaining that she wished she understood that there was a risk to the vaccine and that she doesn’t want any other girls hurt by it.

Birthdays -- the key part is the "happy"

My mom and I used to get giddy about our almost-shared birthdays, which are two days apart in early March. But in 1987, nine days before my 14th birthday -- a week before my mother's 50th birthday -- my older brother committed suicide. Needless to say, my family's world was shattered. My siblings were all a lot older than I was and closer to him, but I was still a self-centered teen who wanted attention.

For years later, the anniversaries weighed heavy on us all, and birthday bliss was just not an option. Add on top of that that social events and hostessing stressed out my already-depressed mom, and you've got a recipe for loneliness, even if the anniversary and birthday weren't in the already-bleak late February/early March. That time of year is still hard for me to the extent that I sometimes think I bring on my own drama, like I did this year.

But my son. Oh, he's a different story. His birthday comes just 20 days after mine -- just after the technical turn into spring. And for him I want happy memories attached to good feelings. So we've always done birthday playdates where our friends just come over and we have lunch and some gluten-free cake. We sing and this year I had balloons, bubbles and sidewalk chalk, but I ask for no gifts and don't give party favors, a la Birthdays Without Pressure. We give him presents, as do his grandparents and, sometimes -- away from the party playdate -- do our good friends. But I want him to associate celebrating with people in his home and happiness. And some special time with his parents and some candles and some good food.

This next year he will be four, and I think I'll probably keep up the low-key plan.

Let patients get the full picture

“This is why health care costs are so high,” hissed my endocrinologist when she looked at the results of the labwork my holistic physician had ordered. To her, the additional blood tests were a waste of time and money. But the information – a full, more complete picture of my thyroid levels and antibody levels– helped me to get better. And whose fault is it that the tests cost a lot in the first place?

At the time, I was dealing with autoimmune thyroiditis. I sought help from alternative health care providers in addition to the endocrinologist. She spent a short amount of time with me, mostly hunched over her prescription pad figuring out how to alter the dosage of my medicine. By contrast, the holistic physician spent close to an hour talking to me to explain in great detail – even drawing me graphs – how the chemicals in my body were working together – or not working so great, as the case was. With his help, I came to understand what was going on in my body, which helped me to heal.

So what is a waste of money? Time to talk with a patient? Time spent to investigate lifestyle choices that might make a huge impact?

Without the advice of a nutritionist, I might have never figured out that I had both casein intolerance and gluten sensitivity on its way to celiac disease, both problems undetected by gastroenterologists. And both problems long in the making that could have been part of my developing thyroid disorders -- Graves’ Disease (autoimmune hyperthyroidism) and Hashimoto’s Disease (autoimmune hypothyroidism).

Shopping cart etiquette

I hope I didn’t just shame my friend at IKEA. It was a rainy Sunday morning, getting busier by the minute.  Long gone was the relative quiet we enjoyed within minutes of our 10:15 a.m. arrival. The sight of so many people trying to make sense of their lives was making me woozy, even without my husband and son, who were (thank God!) in another section of the store. Just outside the elevator, I heard my name shouted and turned to fine a good friend following me into the silver moving box. The first thing that dropped out of my mouth was, “Oh! Hi! Wow, you have two kids standing in your shopping cart!”

This is probably a pretty normal occurrence, this thing of kids standing in the cart. But I don’t do it. At least not right now. We are child seat or you walk. I got scared into following the cart rules a few months ago in Staples. Just after going to the bathroom, my son executed on one of those visuals with the line through it: he pulled the whole cart over on himself. In the process, he smacked his head on the ground and scraped up his leg, not to scared the crap out of himself (and me). Normally a quick rebounder, my bruised and upset boy begged to go home. I gave him some homeopathic Arnica pellets and made him suffer with me to wait for pre-paid flyers for our for sale by owner open house to print (which, incidentally, never worked, so I had to wait even longer to get a refund). We didn't need stitches, obviously, but I did get religion on the cart rules.

Life without internet

I'm stealing bandwidth from a neighbor's unsecured wireless network to write this because my phone company has told me I have to wait twelve days -- twelve days! -- before they can come figure out why I have a dial tone on the test box outside of my house but not the inside. Twelve days? Since I am one of about seventeen people in the DC area (and perhaps one of two mommy bloggers?) without a Blackberry or iPhone, this sucks.

The library is closed this morning, and I really don't want drive and park to pay for crappy coffee to sit at a cafe for slow speed during the very short time my son is away from the house. I suppose it's possible that I could plug our own wireless router into the test box outside, but it seems like setting up shop in the driveway would just be an invitation for it to rain. So I'm leeching off the (somewhat inconsistent and annoying) network belonging to whatever kind neighbor didn't put in a password. I'll refrain, however, from online shopping.

When regular life looks scary: the DC Metro crash

I'll never forget the first time I was in the car with a mommy friend alone, sans kids. Ahead of us, a Metro train was slowing into a station, and I instinctively called out, "Look! Metro train!" before I realized my transportation-happy toddler was not there to be entertained. Still, I got a kick out of the fact that his presence in my life had made me get a kick out of something that used to seem so ordinary. Even when he wasn't around.

And then, now, the tragedy. At least nine people dead. So many questions. Such scary images, the worst thankfully not on the front page.

My son: Happily oblivious, luckily not grabbing today's paper as he does when a zoo animal or race horse catches his eye
Me: Thankful especially this day -- but also this week with news from Iran and, really, every day -- that he is at least two years away from reading (I hope) and doesn't know what K-I-L-L-E-D means.