DC Metro Moms

Wanna Trade?

In my elementary school days, it was stickers that we coveted. I had a collection three huge photo albums full sorted according to worth and trade-ability. I can remember my book bag being weighed down by "my sticker books" but the struggle was worth it because a good grade on a test could mean a scratch & sniff sticker and trading was something all the girls were up for at recess. And bringing your collection to slumber parties was a must. Some of my best stickers were sparkly, puffy, smelly or fuzzy but I wasn't above adding the sticker I peeled off of a banana at lunch to my book. The hobby became intoxicating; if it stuck, I wanted it.

Now, kids are wearing and trading trendy bracelets called Silly Bandz. Who knows how these things start but about two weeks ago both of my daughters began wearing them home from school. Obviously, this arm candy was good enough to trade your snack for so I had to ask, "What's the big deal?" 

Stubborn Like Her Mother

 When I was fourteen, I knew everything. When I turned fifteen, I no longer had patience for those who were out of the know...like my parents.

On a return trip home from the beach in the family van that year, I remember talking/debating/arguing over where to stop for lunch. My parents' favorite was a small Mom & Pop joint where the waitresses chewed gum and served pie with a smile. I wasn't into that lameness one bit. I wanted McDonald's or Pizza Hut or anything other than some stupid place that I had deemed "disgusting".

My mother, who no longer had an ounce of patience with me in my all-knowing status, became fed up with the discussion and announced that we were going to the Mom & Pop joint and if I didn't like it, I could stay in the car. 

Well, that was all she had to say.

Let the End of the School Year Marathon Begin

I love the winter for its peace and quiet. My daughters are not involved in sports during the season and even the plans we are able to make are at the mercy of the weather. I know we were all complaining about cabin fever back in February but right now the thought of being made to stay home sounds delicious. I know that as soon as the smell of St. Patrick's Day corned beef and cabbage subsides my the house, I'd better get my head in the game, my shoes laced up tight and keep my planner with me at all times.

For my kids, the end of March means the beginning of soccer and softball as well as the shopping of must have's for each sport. This year, my darling 10 year old upped the ante and asked to join a vaulting team. This child, my baby and always the daredevil, was invited to join a team of girls as crazy as her that enjoy doing gymnastics on horseback. We should have said no. I even brought my husband along to help me say no when we visited the farm but somehow she tricked us again with her charming voodoo. My husband concluded that we need to just come to terms with the fact that this child is not happy unless she is atop an ATV or a horse. (As I said, voodoo.) My point is that although vaulting may mean the entire world to my 10 year old right now, for me it means more driving, more practices, more juggling the schedule and more money.

For Her 40th Birthday, We Were 18 Again

The last concert I attended was The Jonas Brothers with my tween daughters so when my friend Aime asked if I wanted her extra Bon Jovi ticket, I said hell yes...at first.

It was all very last minute: getting a spot at the photography conference I had been coveting, which included a weekend in a posh hotel away sans kiddos as well as the concert ticket offer. My initial response to all of it was a resounding YES! Then, as I was packing, I began to second-guess myself.

What am I thinking? I'm way too old to be going to a rock concert. Besides, I'll be too tired to focus on the conference the next day. Who in their right mind would drive from St. Micheals, MD to The Verizon Center in Washington DC and back in one night to see Bon Jovi? Children, that's who, and I am an old lady.

Even though my concert status was a firm maybe in my mind, I made sure to pack an outfit to rock out in...just in case.

My Bi-Coastal Marriage is Over

 In May of 2008, our family decided that my husband should accept a promising job offer in California. At that time, we were living in Virginia and the real estate market was somewhere in the toilet. Our plan was to live bi-coastally either until it made sense for the whole family to move to California or until my husband could open up an office in the DC area, which would have him home at least half of the time.

This was not our first experience with living apart as a married couple. When we moved back to Virginia in 2003, my husband’s job was in California. For over a year, he spent only half of the month home. It was difficult but the arrangement worked for the most part. My husband was able to make at least half of the soccer games, school functions and bedtime stories. Since it worked once, we figured it could again.

After taking the job, my husband came home when he could and the girls and I spent quite a bit of time in San Francisco, not an unpleasant undertaking. There were some definite benefits to the arrangements; I got the bathroom and the remote to myself, NASCAR no longer dominated Sundays and my razor burn diminished almost entirely. I cannot tell you how many times one of my girlfriends remarked how they wished they had a similar setup on the home front.

Under Snow House Arrest

The DC area blizzard double punch of 2010 brought with it too many feet of snow, took power lines down, caused white-out driving conditions and closed all area public schools for the week. In our outlying rural area, the schools have canceled classes for an even longer period of time. My children have only gone to school one day in the last two weeks.

I'll give you a second to process that information before I continue...

While You Were Sleeping

I was walking down the hall in my childhood home when I spotted the dog. It was curled up on one of the blue, upholstered, armchairs that were my great grandfather's. Neither the house nor the chairs belong to us anymore but in my dream, the scene was normal.

As I got closer, I shook my head in disbelief. I knew this couldn't be true. We lost her a year ago. Any second now, she was going to lift her head and I would see that it was another Great Dane with similar markings, not my Lillian. Not Lil. But yet, I dared to hope.

That's the funny thing about dreams; it can take an inordinate amount of time to simply walk down a hallway. You are allowed a lifetime of thoughts and possibilities in the snap of a finger.

As the dog lifted her head, I shut my eyes in fear. What if it wasn't her? What if it was? I didn't want to let myself look but felt compelled. When I opened them, a cry flew from my lips. It was Lillian.

How I Saved Her High School Social Life

It started with a Spanish assignment. It ended with me saving her social life.

My mother and I were cooking the Sunday away, oblivious to calories, fat and most of what was going on in any room but the kitchen. My daughters were finishing up some weekend homework and the dogs were sitting patiently begging while the house was busy smelling divine. Every so often, mostly due to that permeating divinity, the girls would pop down to check out and taste the goodies.

When my fourteen year old entered for the third time, she had an armful of old photo albums.

"Is it okay if I use some of these baby pictures for my Spanish project?"

"Sure," I said," just please be careful with them. I want them back."

With Visions of Community Service Dancing In My Head

It was the pitch that did not need a pitch. A lovely PR lady asked if my kids would be interested in helping elderly residents learn to play the Wii at a local senior center last weekend.

To my ears, this sounded like the perfect way for my daughters to get involved with the community during the holiday season. I pictured them each paired up with an AARP sweetheart. My girls would remind them of their granddaughters while eating up the attention and probably some hard candy from their Kleenex-filled pockets. The afternoon would fly by too quickly as they mastered video games, moved on to jigsaw puzzles and enjoyed the cookies & punch offering. The duos would hit it off so well that they'd exchange addresses so they could become pen pals. Later, in the car, my daughters would fill me in on their plans to go back and learn to knit and help with scrap-booking. Perfect, right?

Well, what went down wasn't exactly that scenario. It was more like this:

The Trophy Wife Speaks

I have never considered myself a "trophy wife" but after my Uncle's wife referred to me as one this Thanksgiving, I figured I should know what it means.

From About.com:

Definition: The term "trophy wife" generally refers to a successful, powerful businessman's second or third wife who is beautiful, educated, successful, and younger than her husband.

A "trophy wife" is considered a status symbol.

Huh..and here I was thinking I was being insulted. Silly me.

My point here isn't to lure you into my recent drama. Instead, I'd rather discover what normal families, regular, balanced people like you do when they run face first into the brick wall that is holiday togetherness. Please tell me it's bad all over. Or tell me how to cope. That I'm not alone. Or just how many miles I need to live from my relatives to escape the annual friction.