DC Metro Moms

Feeling Helpless About Haiti

It's 5:30 a.m.  I've been up for the past hour and a half watching the coverage of the devastation in Haiti. 

What can I do?

I sent money.  I sent up prayers.  There has to be something more.

The mother, the woman, the fellow human being in me wants to organize things.  Watching the chaos in Port Au Prince is mind-boggling.  We are so spoiled in the States.  A fender-bender occurs here and an entire army of cars and trucks adorned with lights and sirens appears.  A massive earthquake has destroyed significant parts of Haiti and the signs of organized infrastructure are almost non-existent.

It's not that I don't think officials are setting up plans.  I know people from my own county dropped what they were doing to board planes and bring their skills to the island, but it seems like they need more. 

Who is running triage?  Who is taking care of the orphans?  Who is bringing water?  How will people eat?
I'm so grateful that it's not my job to provide answers to these questions, and yet I feel like I should be doing something.

Health Care Reform is NOT a Race

The town hall meetings, the stump speeches, the press conferences and the Sunday talk shows...all we're hearing about is health care reform. I'm glad this topic is finally getting attention, but why are we so eager to rush it through? Everyone is clamoring to make themselves heard and what is the result? It's a cacophony above which we can hear nothing.

Our Founding Fathers knew what they were doing when they created two houses in Congress. The House can act fast as Representatives must face an election every two years, but Senators have the luxury of a six year term. The Senate was designed to be the more deliberative body. I hope in the case of this very important issue they will prevail.

Amie on the Health Care Reform Debate from mammaloves on Vimeo.

Amie is a political consultant and mom of three. She has lived in the DC area for 16 years and blogs here on DC Metro Moms and her personal site Mamma Loves...

Yes. I am a Baseball Mom

For this one season, all three of my boys played little league.  One in his last year, one in his first year and one at a level in between.  This means we started the spring with three little league patches to sew on, three sets of uniforms to keep clean and three athletic cups floating around our house. 

I'm not complaining.

Spending hours on at the field with three different teams opens up your opportunities to see old friends and make brand new ones (one is silver and the other gold...c'mon sing along!).  I mean once you've sat on the bleachers and cheered until you were hoarse and then hugged every one around you after a big win, you feel pretty close.

While I never mind heading to the field one more time during the week, I've never thought of myself as a "baseball mom" until a recent discussion in the stands.

The Best Parenting Advice I Ever Received

The first time I became a parent it was with little warning.  We had been married just about nine months and the call came out of the blue on a Friday afternoon. 

On Sunday, we had a three and a half year old.

No matter how you become a parent, you're never really prepared.  But in this situation, we really weren't.  We hadn't applied to adopt.  On occasion, our dog got a bowl of Cheerios if we hadn't had a chance to make it to the grocery store.  Friends were still regularly crashing at our house after a late night out. 

I had plenty of babysitting experience, but taking care of a child full-time? 

I just didn't want to ruin this little guy's life, so I turned to the parent I knew the best--my mom.

My mom is a humble woman.  Not surprisingly, her response to my plea for answers was simple and under-stated.

"In no way am I one to be giving parenting advice, so I will just say try to keep your sense of humor."

Um.  Okay.

I'm Not Going to Survive Seventh Grade This Time Around

We're only a month or so into the new school year, and I'm already failing seventh grade--failing as a seventh grade parent that is.

Eight different teachers, remembering to bring home books, an attitude and hormones.  How is a parent expected to survive it all?!

My mother toasted me at my bridal shower telling guests that her sweet daughter mysteriously disappeared at the age of 12 and didn't return again until she turned 20 and that she had been so happy to have her back the last nine years.  I laughed appropriately but never truly understood what she meant until this year.

Mad, Passionate, Wild Sex--Oh, the Memories...

It's the same sad story. 

You're young and energetic and kid-free and you have sex--lots and lots of sex. 

Then one day you get this hair-brained idea that you should actually put this sex to good use--you know other than burning calories and blissing out--and you decide to make a baby.  Whether you're successful on the first try--yeah my husband can't sneeze in my direction--or it takes so many "tries" that you can't stand the sight of your mate naked, sex never seems to be the same again.

I don't want to scare the child-free, but there is a tremendous amount of fine print on the Welcome to Parenthood sign.  Scientists aren't sure whether the type is too small for the naked eye or if the word Parenthood is just so large that it blots everything else out.  Either way, conventional wisdom suggests that the fine print does include a warning that sex will never be the same.

To that I say, "BOO!"

An Apology to My Pre-Teen Son

My Sweet Boy,

I am sorry.  Today I could have been a much better mother to you, but it's 11:00 p.m. and you're in bed--hopefully asleep--and I'm just figuring this out now.  I know I might act like I know what I'm doing and my voice may sound like that of an authority, but I have to admit there a lot of times where I'm pretty much winging it with this parenting thing.

It's not that I don't take the job seriously, but I've always been a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kind of girl and, well, that seemed to work when you were younger--it still does with your little brothers.  Now though, you're getting older and taller and smarter and hormones are starting to course through your veins and honestly everything is much more complicated because despite all of this you're still a kid who needs his parents. 

I feel like a new parent all over again.

Mamma's Dip Recipe--Oh Yeah, There Was a Party

So on Friday night a bunch of the DC Metro Moms got together at Sarah's for a wine tasting (or beer drinking if you're me--thanks for the Stella Nancy).

I'd love to tell you how refined we all were--how we just sipped wine, looked fabulous and compared designer handbags.  But if that had been the case, you definitely wouldn't have been at a DC Metro Moms party and you definitely wouldn't have had as much fun as we did.  Of course, everyone there WAS fabulous--I'm especially talking to you girl--except me of course who opted for a nap and a ponytail instead of a "do" but that's what's so terrific about this group of women, I knew they'd show me some love just the same. 

For those of you who weren't there, fear not.  Just drink a lot of wine, go try to sneak up to your old boyfriend's house in a minivan filled with crazy moms and then scarf down some crack dip (recipe below).

It will be just like you were there.

Well, except for the fact that you didn't get to experience these shoes in real life. (And, um, Mr. Vibram I'd love a pair to try in size 9 1/2 please--especially after this broken ankle)

Why Eliot? Why?

I've loved watching you take down the bad guys. I loved that you weren't afraid to go after anyone. I had high hopes for you.

And now?  I feel like a disappointed parent. (Wait! I am a parent and I am disappointed.)

I mean really! Didn't you think you'd get caught? Didn't you realize those you've left in your wake would want to nail something on you?

Traveling Without Kids

Do you see this bed?  This lovely king-sized bed?  Oh yeah.  I have it all. to. myself.

Don't hate me too much.

I am travelling for business right now, and as much as I miss my three crazy boys and their saint of a father, I LOVE having a room to myself for a few days.