Desperate in DC

Baby Snatcher

Dear C,

What a charming picture of domestic bliss you and baby presented just now, when I called round to drop off my gift.  There you both were, nestled up to the fake fire, baby nursing contentedly in your arms.  Would it surprise you to hear that I was tempted to go postal on my own family upon my return to my own distinctly fire-less hearth and home?

It seems, dear neighbor, that I am currently suffering through a temporary case of insanity, a.k.a. baby envy, which came on at the hospital almost the second your youngest poked out her head.  Several times, in those subsequent hours, I came close to snatching said babe out of your arms and bolting for the nearest exit, prior to boarding the next plane to Las Vegas and living life on the lam as a thirty-and-then-some single mom.  It was all so exciting, you see - and the best part was, I didn't have to give birth!

That turned out to be the problem of course.  Suddenly, I realized it wasn't at all about me.  There you were, quietly nursing this bundle of potential while graciously receiving visits from family and friends....while I got to return home to the same tedious old husband and rapidly aging children, whose personalities (and issues) were only too real. 

Deep down, I know that the last thing I want is another impediment to self-fulfillment.  Babies make wonderful fashion accessories, of course, but do I really want another two-year old wiping snot on my leg as I prepare to step out into the world and greet the fame and fortune that I just know is waiting for me out there, somewhere?

I think not, dear C, which is why I would ask you to wear your rattiest bathrobe and slippers next time I call round.  Unless you actually need a break from mothering for the next say, oh, eighteen years, in which case I promise to treat baby as my one of my own.

Faithfully,

P.

Re: Baby Snatcher

P,

You have an amazing ability to filter out "the rest of the story" while gracing my abode with your presence.  Did you notice, while you were here, that my nine year old son was demanding I allow him to download Eminem on his iPod or my seven year old princess whining that her life was ruined by the entrance of another girl in the family?  Surely you couldn't have missed the four year old attached just below my neck.  He was eyeing baby's access to my breast in a suspicious and disappointed fashion, much like hubby now does.

I confess I appreciate the cherubs' feelings of displacement as I am, as yet, most days unable to call each of them by the appropriate name on the first try.  As an only child, I only assumed those in large families were having more fun.  Why didn't I ever ask?  What I find most interesting is how few of my contemporaries in D.C. seemed to have followed a similar path of chaos.  I'm afraid they seem to think nurturing the individual is terribly important.  My own Midwestern upbringing suggested seeking this kind of attention for oneself was just bad form, an idea I foster with my own offspring and marriage partner, if not myself.

I do suppose I decided to have number four, however, as a way to distinguish myself on the East Coast.  It has become readily apparent in the last year that none of my lovely offspring may be either the brightest or most talented of their private school classmates.  But they will have come from a large brood.  As college admission discussions by the parents of children in my daughter's second grade class revolve around finding a passion as an admittance strategy, I believe I have given them all a cause: not getting lost in the crowd.  Do hope this is enough.

So while you're concerned about the tedium of your current existence, and I try to pretend my youngest is my only child, I think we should focus instead upon that which we can control: our own limited opportunities for pleasure.  As soon as the au pair emerges from her lair to take over for too few hours, I'm popping down to whisk you away for a mani/pedicure, telling her, of course, that I have an important client meeting.  Any objections?

Faithfully,

C.

In the Beginning

P,

Words really can't express my gratitude for your willingness to attend me in my most desperate moment.  I was terribly sorry to interrupt afternoon tea, but when hubby mentioned that his meeting was incredibly important, and the contractions were no more than three minutes apart, I really felt I must take some decisive action.  I was surprised that two other neighbors claimed their schedules didn't allow a quick drive to the hospital as it was even on their way downtown.  As a working mom, I certainly understand the drive to succeed, but this did seem like a necessary interruption, at least for me.  Must confess I never met with such resistance in the Midwest, where giving birth is considered a function of the highest order.  Fortunately, your attentive nature made sure you found me, submerged in the bathtub like a beached whale, moaning under the pulse of the shower head while sobbing into the phone about my plight. 

After waddling to your house with bathrobe and suds trailing, I truly believe the PBS documentary about the wives of King Henry VIII and the hot cuppa saved me from complete hysteria.  It calmed my nerves considerably and made me realize beheading could, possibly, be worse.  Was a bit embarrassed when I remembered that your spouse worked from home and he called down to ask about the screams of agony coming from the family room.  Considering my youngest was born within an hour of admission to the hospital, I think you made the right call when you insisted on rolling me to the car and drove like a shot to have me admitted.  The dings on hubby's SUV will always be considered as a glorious reminder of how hard you fought to get me where I needed to be.

It seems a tad unfortunate that my strongest recollection from the birth, besides the lack of pain medication, will be the midwife's insistence that I was older than my thirty-seven years.  Telling a woman about to give birth that she must really be forty-two does justify my immediate response about her excess facial hair, doesn't it?  Hope the thank you note with the enclosed depilatory kit makes things better between us.

Lucky for me hubby was able to zip in just under the wire to discover not only had I hired the hottest doula on the east coast but that wife and daughter were doing just fine.  I had warned him, since I drove myself to the hospital for the birth of our first cherub, that when I say hurry, I really do mean get your ass here now.  Fortunately, I was able to rouse him from sleep for the birth of the middle two and he didn't have the option of claiming a work conflict.

I must admit your constant presence made all the difference as both the hairy midwife and the hired doula seemed to have no clue about the true nature of my pain.  When I was screaming that I couldn't take it anymore, and everyone else cooed that I was strong and brave, it was only your slap and commanding "Pull it together, Mama," which saved the day.  As I mentioned, really do think you should reconsider a career in crisis management.

Gotta run as youngest is happily nursing and I have a client to call--can't say they were glad to give me the two weeks away from their legal woes as it was.  Must admit to feeling a bit overwhelmed trying to manage three olders while one more darling hangs almost constantly from my nipple.  The au pair does seem grateful for my lessons about the true meaning of motherhood and confessed she will unfailingly take her birth control pills for many years to come.  Who knew my greatest contribution might be as the poster child for teenage abstinence? 

Faithfully,

C.

Re: In the Beginning

Dear C,

Let me be the first to say that truly, it was an honor to be present at the birth of your fourth child - and what a beauty she is, too!  Secretly, of course, I have longed to be caught up in a birth drama such as yours - the urgent phone call, the rush to the hospital; the fact that no-one else, including the putative father of your unborn child could be there for you during your hour of need. Naturally, there are those who might claim that your husband's reluctance to cut short the weekly staff meeting to be there until the bitter end was a result of all the unfortunate false alarms you had in the weeks and months leading up to the momentous event.  Rest assured, however; I was there for you, during every one of those middle-of-the night calls, even if they came to naught.

So glad, also, that my words (and gestures) of support proved helpful during the difficult hours of active labor, which you insisted on enduring, as is the wont of so many super-moms in Washington DC, without any kind of drug relief.  I made the mistake of giving birth (twice) in London, where my own equally hairy and definitely childless midwife took it upon herself to let the epidural wear off for the pushing stage.  I have an outstanding contract on the woman as we speak.

In your case, however, the choice of a comely German maiden barely out of her teens to act as your doula certainly seemed to meet with the approval of your husband, although I fear her exhortations to 'push through the pain' might have come across as a tad patronizing, coming from someone simultaneously texting her friends about meeting up at the club later on.

Rest assured, however, when it comes to post-partum glamor, you take the prize.  That fetching purple silk negligee seemed to re-focus your husband's attention only too well, and may immediately have to be tossed, unless you want to find yourself in the same situation, nine months along.  Good job in telling him to run along home, after baby's three other siblings called to ask you for dinner, in the manner of open-mouthed chicks squawking from the nest!  Kudos, also, for handing baby over to doula and demanding narcotics - in the form of two Ambien - before retiring for the night.  As a busy litigator and mother of four, you know better than most, the importance of prioritizing self at all times.

Faithfully,

P.

The Bloody Truth

P,

Your recent chat about considering interests outside my own inspired me to donate blood at the cherubs' school blood drive yesterday.  Propelled by the notion that donating a pint is equivalent to burning sufficient calories to erase one pound, I offered my highly desirable blood type (that's not arrogant, just so true) without another thought for my own welfare.  Of course I had no idea how much the Red Cross resembles the Soviet bureaucracy of days past.  I assumed I would be feted like a Queen by the way they solicited me, but the resulting morass made me realize how much I deserved a post-event pedi/manicure.

Unfortunately the questions now asked of innocent donors resemble a checklist I hope to administer to my own daughters' first suitors.  How can I be certain whether hubby, really, has ever had sex with even one man?  I can only assume, based upon his retiscence to admit to a chewing tobacco habit, that it is entirely possible.  I even stumbled over questions about my intimate relations with the British.  Didn't mention our recent correspondence as I was concerned that I would be denied the opportunity to shed the aforementioned calories but do feel slightly dirty now and strongly believe that you are entirely responsible.

In any case, as I wasn't preliminary screened as an inappropriate donor, I was at last offered the coveted bleeder's repose.  I must confess my enjoyment for the simple pampering of the actual donation process.  It suddenly becomes all about how one feels and great attention is paid to every slight nod of the head and sweat on the brow (hubby could take a few lessons).  Even the prepping of my arm was slightly sensual as the iodine was rubbed soothingly and nearly endlessly to assure, I suppose, a sterile field for the needle stick (you do suppose they do this to everyone, right?).

Unfortunately, although the giving was so good, the stopping was not.  Although never fettered with any problem in the past, seems I've become what they now term a bleeder.  Although the needle was removed, my precious life fluid continued to flow.  Although I relished the opportunity to drop another pound, it did occur to me as I became rather light-headed that maybe there were simpler ways to slim the waist.  I began to get quite comfortable as the personnel surrounded me and, in hushed and urgent tones, talked about a trip to the hospital.  Alas, within another thirty seconds, my platelets apparently received word of the need, and the clotting began.  Instead of an afternoon of doting care and attention, I was shortly asked to leave the chair for another.  And fetch my cherubs immediately.

I naturally spent the rest of the day telling my young about my great sacrifice on their behalf and spent the evening refueling my lost liquid (I assume cosmopolitans are best for this since they are blood red).  Although it's pretty clear you and yours will not likely ever be eligible to donate (and hubby's own attempt resulted in a less than manly fainting spell), I am happy to carry the burden of donating every six weeks or so.  Don't worry if I become too thin as, much like Paris Hilton, I do it  all in the interest of a better world. 

Faithfully,

C. 

Re: The Bloody Truth

Dear C,

Offer up a pint of blood, and suddenly you want everyone to start calling you a saint!  Frankly, I don't know what's more tragic: the lengths a busy wife and mother has to go to these days to get a little TLC for herself; or the extreme measures she has to take in order to shed a pound.  Naturally, I'd be flat out on the cot bed next to you faster than you can say 'Cosmo, anyone?', if it weren't for the unfortunate fact of my British nationality, which is seemingly enough to get you put on a bio-terrorist watch list this days.

But if you really think about it, who among us can really be sure they aren't infected with just a touch of Mad Cow?  Only the other day, I found myself wondering the supermarket aisles, trying to remember why I had come, and what the point of it all was.....but then again, I have asked myself those questions for years.  Similarly, who hasn't felt the sudden urge to invade Poland while waiting in line at the DMV?  As someone who has mysteriously put on weight in the last month or so - I think it's the increase in atmospheric pressure - to be deprived of the chance to offload the odd extra pound or so via legalized blood-letting amounts to the kind of discrimination MLK fought so hard to eliminate.  I hope hubby is prepared to add my complaint to his list of pending class-action suits!

Speaking of weight gain, I have noticed that the women in my current yoga class are looking a little less skeletal than usual.  Not sure if it's a result of achieving all that inner peace, or whether it's time to switch loyalty to the studio you frequent, where I understand the pounds simply melt away in the Guantanamo-style studio heat.  Not that I'm against inner peace, you understand, just not at the expense of my outer ass.

Namaste,

P.

Your Friendly Neighborhood Informer

Dearest C,

I hate to be a snitch, especially since I know your beloved Mama occasionally reads our correspondence, but I think it's important you be made aware of certain grandmotherly shortcomings during your latest absence from the family home.  Reluctant as I am to be the bearer of bad news, dear C, rumor has it that while you and hubby were frolicking in the surf, Cancun-side, last week, your eleven year-old was spotted riding a bike, sans helmet, in the mean streets of Chevy Chase.  Not only that, after committing the rookie mistake of allowing your offspring to accompany her to the supermarket, Grandma blithely 'fessed up to caving in to their incessant demands for what I believe is colloquially known as junk food, resulting in a veritable orgy of Oreo and donut-dunking at your house - and not just while I was there.

Whatever next, I hear you ask?  Non-organic cereal for breakfast?  Television after school?  The upper middle-classes of Northwest Washington are reeling at the thought.

It used to be that my parents thought nothing of letting us attach our younger sister to the toaster, or practice jump rope on the underpass before tea....Those were the days!  But times have changed, and behavior that was considered perfectly acceptable nearly thirty (OK, forty) years ago would have you thrown in Abu Graib now, with Human Rights Watch electing to throw away the key.

The only reason I tell you all this, dear C, is not to get Grandma in trouble, or even to suggest she change her evil ways.  Simply, I want to provide you with a  negotiating chip next time she begs off babysitting for the little 'uns ('Come, or I'll tell the Feds!').  That, and to provide you with a little comeback next time she dares to criticize your mothering techniques.

Faithfully,

P.

Re: Your Friendly Neighborhood Informer

P,

Although I truly believe your witty words were intended to make the larger point that our parenting standards have become, in this generation, quite insufferable, I must, as usual, point out the folly of your lazy, I do mean laid back, ways.  If we as mothers who used to run something other than a household don't take our charges seriously, who can imagine what harm may follow?  Of course, less vigilance may only result in the slightly inebriated state favored by most stay-at-home mothers I knew as a child, and since I still strongly favor this charmed if hazy approach, I'm loathe to suggest another way.  However, as a card-carrying member of the independent school parent alliance, I must at least pretend to make the grade.

Although it's never clearly stated, it's usually very easy to discern whether you're one of us, oops, I mean them.  How many regularly scheduled extra-curriculars are enjoyed by the cherubs, P?  Fewer than fluent mastery of at least one other language and instrument may suggest your aspiration to private school peers are moot.  In addition, it helps to schedule at least one successful playdate every week in which traits such as sharing, kindness and appropriate fluency in competitive game playing may be displayed.  I'm sorry to reveal that throwing a bag of chips in the basement while Sponge Bob chants various mantras at the neighborhood masses doesn't count.

Finally, although you may feel slightly patronized by today's standards, you must never forget it all has very little to do with the children.  If not for the full life created by shopping, playing and organizing all things organic, what would we, I mean they, do?  We may be forced back into the corporate world we left--resulting in the real equalizing of the sexes in our society.  What then would we have to whine about?  Now that, my friend, is most frightening indeed.

Faithfully,

C.

Can't We Just Be Something Like Friends?

P,

Although I'm touched by your concern for my welfare, I think, if I've learned anything since moving to DC, it's that friend is a word meaning, "what have you done for me lately."  And although I adore our tennis, tea and cocktails, it isn't always enough to get what I need to survive here.  Of course, assuming you'll still have me, I plan to continue those activities indefinitely and only add, as necessary, the odd and occasional suck-up to power. 

Nemesis may have a rear end the size of a mack truck, but she knows how to get things done.  As for Headmistress, I think the attraction is clear.  If only a trust fund or daddy's separate but shared riches allowed me to make friends with women I liked, I would gladly do so.  I so envy the ladies on the other side of Connecticut Ave. but suspect their own "deal with the devil" lies next to them every night, and he's usually much older, isn't he? 

I only hope you can support me as I proceed through this very trying time: without hubby anywhere to be seen and so many house renovations and absent household help, I fear my pharmacist will be working overtime.  I only hope you will be too.

Faithfully,

C. 

Re: Can't We Be Something Like Friends?

Dear C,

Let me be the first to applaud you for creating such an admirable cost/benefit model with which to calculate the merits of your many and varied relationships.  Given that we live in a town where people like nothing better than looking over your shoulder to find someone more important to talk to, what better way to someone's worth than by analzying what they have done for you lately?  My only suggestion would be that you extend this model further, to encompass hubby and cherubs.  Thus, when hubby threatens to drone on about his day, or youngest whines for some form of sustenance with her evening cocktail,  you can gently remind them of the late JFK's stirring mantra:  'Ask not what your mother can do for you, but what you can do for your mother.'  (Feel free to substitute the word 'wife' in hubby's case, btw, although what he likes to call you in the privacy of your own bedroom is between you, him and your two mother-in-laws, of course.)

Alas, I fear on this basis there is little or no future in our own relationship.  Unlike Headmistress or Nemesis, I cannot simply destroy a child's future, or your dreams of a hot tub, with the stroke of a pen.  As always, all I can offer is tea, sympathy and a slice or two of cake.  But where else can you go for judgment-free calories in this holier than thou city?

Faithfully,

P.