Her Kids

I’m not a buttinsky mom. You know the type -- the ones that “tsk tsk” as if their babies’ dirty diapers didn’t stink.

Once again I got caught up in Olympic fever, watching at least some of the Winter 2010 games everyday for the past two weeks. The Vancouver competitions ended over the weekend, and now withdrawal has set in.

Under or over? Don’t care. Ultra Strong or Ultra Soft? You choose. Quilted or non-quilted? Life is too short. 

But, isn’t it time we figured out the origin of the gender-specific, fear of cardboard?

They're not real.  Yet, that doesn’t stop many red-blooded men(children) from finding cartoon moms sexy.

Super Bowl XLIV, like the 43 super games that came before it, was all about the testosterone. Despite the reality that countless moms enjoy NFL’s most celebrated day, too -- and are the ones who shop for, prepare and clean up the pigskin party provisions -- one multi-million dollar commercial after another aired during yesterday’s game was geared toward dads.

The sound of happy children’s voices drew me to my back window. The snow had been falling for about 24 hours and steadily accumulating. Our fenceless backyard backs up to our neighbors’ fenceless backyards and the usually green expanse had turned into a white wonderland overnight. I stared out at the children enjoying the unusually heavy snowfall. Just yesterday, these same children smiled and clapped from strollers while their young parents coaxed them gently into the snow for the very first time.

Laid up with a sore neck and shoulder this weekend, alternately attached to a heating pad and ice pack, I had few entertainment options. My laptop was a no-no since hours behind the keyboard, no doubt, contributed to my temporary incapacitation. That left me with TV (after I realized my book wasn’t within reach) and involved moving only my index finger along the remote while allowing the rest of my hurting body to remain still.

My nieces, ages 8 and 10, attended their first funeral. Their beloved former nanny, a.k.a. their “fairy godmother,” died unexpectedly, after a tragic automobile accident on a rainy night a few days before Christmas. She was 53.

Why didn’t I think of this?  A book that’s sure to get new moms all hot and bothered!

It felt as if I’d stepped back in time. A time when “Close the front door,” “Turn off your light!” and “Where are you going?” were always on the tip of my tongue, our kitchen was filled with many more kids than I birthed and the dishwasher ran 24 hours a day. All the bedrooms were occupied and for almost two weeks, my three kids were once again under one happy, hectic roof.