DotMoms

Cat One, Me Zero

By Julie Kirtz Garrett

I just spent $260 on something I promised myself (and my kids) I never would.

I've worked hard during the last few years selling my children on their mom's righteous no-pet stance. I was not going to follow the other moms in our circle and give in to the heavy-handed family pressure to get a pet. I figured, after three kids, I needed a big long break from poop duty. As a busy mom, the last thing I want is a loyal and constant animal companion who needs to be fed, cleaned and cared for. But here's what happened. We didn't get a pet --- the pet got us.

"Cat" (she still doesn't have an official name but we're close) showed up in the yard. Day by day, she got closer to our house. She slept in the sun on the deck. She started pawing at our glass kitchen door at dinner time. Eventually she show up at breakfast.

My kids were curious. They gave her something to drink. I suggested we put a little food out on the deck. Naturally, it made sense to buy some cat food at the grocery store (just a small bag). We were doomed after that. My daughter put up signs in the neighborhood but no one claimed "Cat." She ultimately wore me down with her cool green eyes.

So, we got her into a carrying case and took her to the vet. The lobby was nicer than our pediatrician's (which is a little creepy). $260 later, she is officially our cat.

I am not a cat person. I haven't had a pet since I was 14. Cats always seem too fussy to me. And honestly, all this pampered pet culture seems way out of whack. "Cat" will never be my baby, just a pet. Thankfully, she's affectionate but not too needy. And my three kids are helping to keep track of her.

In fact, without asking, my son Luke saved me from poop duty and cleaned out the litter box.

Julie Kirtz Garrett is a writer and television reporter. She lives in Washington, D.C., with her husband and three children.

Smashing Plaster: The cost of the Martyr Mom routine

By Julie Kirtz Garrett

It started as a thin line in the ceiling above the second floor landing.

"Maybe it's a spider web or a little chipped paint," I rationalized.

My three kids, husband and I walked under the crack countless times each day. But I ignored it because I couldn't face  another home-repair project. And I became bitter. We live in an old and very needy house. I did not marry Mr. Fix-It. So this time, I decided to borrow my husband's usually irritating laissez-faire attitude about home maintenance. It was petty -- I know.

Naturally the crack grew, and so did my resentment. "Why can't he deal with this," I thought. "Why can't he call the repairman this time."

In the spring, the crack spread out like varicose veins. By summer, one of the lines turned into a small gap above the entrance to my 7-year-old's bedroom. I took no action. I let it build. Then, my husband finally called a contractor, but the guy canceled four different appointments.

Which brings me to 7:15 one Monday morning. That's when it all came crashing down -- the ceiling and my pettiness. A sickening, plaster-smashing whoosh woke us all. A huge section of the ceiling collapsed to the floor in one smelly cloud of plaster and dust.

The kids rushed to their bedroom doors.  I sat up in bed and froze, instantly realizing one of them could have been underneath. My husband, sensing my rare paraysis, jumped into action. "It's all OK. No one is hurt," he reassured the kids. "The chandelier isn't even damaged."

He immediately hauled a trash bag and vacuum up the stairs and started cleaning up. He even called a different contractor before leaving for work. 

The kids and I spent that day at home. A summer thunderstorm kept us inside: no complaints. We felt safe, lucky and grateful not to have stitches on top of our heads.

I know we should have fixed the ceiling sooner. I should have skipped the martyr-mom routine. But as it turns out, the smashing plaster exposed more than bare wood ceiling slats. As a couple and as parents, we have more than a few cracks  by now, but together we're still solid.

Julie Kirtz Garrett is a writer and television reporter. She lives in Washington, D.C., with her husband and three children.

The Kitchen Cabinet: Coverage of the candidate's spouse

By Julie Kirtz Garrett

I don't know Jeri Kehn Thompson (shown left with her husband), but she used to be in my Rolodex when I was a new reporter in Washington, D.C. She was young professional, a contact on the Hill, a senate aide and an RNC spokesperson. Now, as the 40-year-old wife of likely presidential candidate Fred Thompson, 64, she has been labeled a "trophy wife."

In today's Washington Post, Robert Novak pens a piece with the headline, "Thompson's Top Advisor." Meanwhile, blogs, chat rooms and a story in The New York Times by Susan Saulny, "Will Her Face Determine His Fortune", focus on her looks: "youthfulness, permanent tan and bleached blond hair ... much of the brouhaha around Mrs. Thompson, 40, is being stirred by photos of her in form-fitting gowns circulating on the Internet."

NPR just aired a story on "Candidates' Spouses: Use and Abuse" that describes how Bill Clinton, Judith Giuliani, and Mrs. Thompson are being covered. Here's an NBC story about Michelle Obama, who Vanity Fair just named one of the best-dressed women in America. Vanity Fair also just published a story on "Guiliani's Princess Bride."

Are spouses fair game? Is the coverage of them sexist? Crass? Are Democratic and Republican candidates' spouses getting the same treatment? Was Jackie O. a trophy wife?

Julie Kirtz Garrett is a writer and television reporter. She lives in Washington, D.C., with her husband and three children.

The Kitchen Cabinet: Cleavage and politics

By Julie Kirtz Garrett

Last week, there were two headlines on the same day about Hillary Clinton, Senator and presidential candidate. The first story was about Senator Clinton's support among women. The second was about, believe it or not, her cleavage.

The New York Times: "Clinton Has Support of Women But Faces Skepticism, Polls Says"

The Washington Post:  "Hillary Clinton's Tentative Dip Into New Neckline Territory"

According to The New York Times story, "Mrs. Clinton's choices as a woman and a political figure have been intensely scrutinized during her 15 years on the national stage."

Which bring us to The Washington Post on the same day, "There was cleavage on display Wednesday afternoon on C-SPAN. It belonged to Sen. Hillary Clinton ... "It was startling to see that small acknowledgment of sexuality and femininity peeking out of the conservative --- aesthetically speaking --- environment of Congress."

This week, The Post is continuing to hear readers' reactions to the story. What do you think: Is a candidate's body fair game?

Julie Kirtz Garrett is a writer and television reporter. She lives in Washington, D.C., with her husband and three children.

The Kitchen Cabinet: First-Family values, dents and all

By Julie Kirtz Garrett

Are we ready for flawed family values in the White House?  --- uuh yes.

The New York Times Magazine tackles "First-Family Values" in a piece by James Traub, who writes, "In 2009, for the first time, we could have a president and spouse who live like the rest of us."

Are we ready for that? Probably.

I suspect voters learned a long time ago the so-called Perfect Couple is an illusion, whether they live in the White House or down the block.

Traub writes, "Those many Americans who have been knocked around by life (43 percent of first marriages end in divorce within 15 years) might appreciate a White House couple with a few dents and dings."

Traub describes the current First Couple as "a throwback couple like Rob and Laura Petrie from 'The Dick Van Dyke Show'." So let's have some fun. Laura and George Bush are to Dick and Laura Petrie as Barack and Michelle Obama are to Bob and Emily Newhart?

Can you think of any other political couple/sitcom couple match-ups?

Julie Kirtz Garrett is a writer and television reporter. She lives in Washington, D.C., with her husband and three children.

The Makeup Artist

By Julie Kirtz Garrett

My mom has been dead for four months. And I can't stop thinking about her final gift to me. It was tucked away in her makeup bag.

I flew back to California a few weeks before she died. She was in the intensive care cardiac unit. We all knew she wasn't getting better this time. The respirator prevented her from speaking. So, I sat next to her bed and filled up the visiting hours with chatter about my life back in Washington, D.C.

"Mary Ellen is the point guard on her basketball team. Luke misses sharing a room with his big sister. Audrey stays up at night reading with a flashlight under her covers --- blah, blah, blah."

I knew she wanted to hear all the happy, little details. I held her hand and tried not to cry. And then I did something she taught me. I pushed away this ugly, nasty, dying business by focusing on something small and very, very important: an eyebrow pencil.

"Mom, can I do your eyebrows?"

Her blue eyes twinkled. She pointed to the metal hospital tray on wheels. I found her small, flowered bag (as always) neatly packed with her Estee Lauder basics: lipstick, pressed powder compact and brown eyebrow pencil.

When the nurse gave her a sponge bath that morning she washed off my mom's gracefully arched eyebrows. Two short, straight, depressing stubs remained above each eye. Mom lifted up her face slightly as I sketched back her full eyebrow lines --- her dignity restored. I could have traced those two familiar curves in the dark.

"Yes, much better," she said with a squeeze of my hand.

My mom was always low maintenance, even as she was dying at age 80. But she never left the house without her eyebrows filled in. I didn't have the power to cure her chronic and fatal lung condition. But I'm so grateful she let me draw a little grace back into that day.

Julie Kirtz Garrett is a writer and television reporter. She lives in Washington, D.C., with her husband and three children.