Mommy Olympians…No Medals for Us


As I sit watching the Olympics this Sunday evening, I realize that I have a lot in common with these athletes.

I don’t know what it’s like to figure skate, but I can nurse a baby, fix breakfast, pack lunches, help with homework, pack back packs, zip coats, put on shoes, send the school kids out the door, throw the toddler in the bath (still nursing the baby), and carve an ice sculpture simultaneously.

Skiing?  Not me.  I can, however, hike to the middle of the sledding hill to stand between the kiddos on the sled and the dangerous ravine, just in case they get too close and threaten to go over.  And when they DO head straight for the dangerous cliff, I position my self to knock them sideways as they pass by so as to get them going in a different direction.  Successful yes.  But thrown 5 feet in the air, fully flipped, and landing on my back disoriented for a few minutes while hubby tears down the hill to see if I’m conscious or not.  That deserves a medal don’t ya think?

The Luge?  Nope.  But I can navigate a car through traffic safely at record speed when I’ve forgotten it’s “short day” at school and I’m an hour away from home.

Ski Jumping?  Oh please.  I’m terrified of heights.  Unless an old man knocks on my door to ask “did you KNOW there was a toddler on your roof???” at which point all fear of heights leaves me and I bolt up the stairs, into a bedroom, to save the toddler that has followed my 8 year old onto the roof.

Biathlon you ask?  I hate guns.  Won’t touch them.  But if you tell me my child is in danger, I’ll be the fastest skier, and the sharpest shooter at whoever or whatever is threatening my kid.

Curling eh?  I’ve never done it.  It looks like a delicate thing to do.  Delicate and motherhood don’t exactly go hand in hand.  Unless of course, keeping the baby from waking up entails delicately navigating the hallway like it’s a mine field to avoid stepping on all floor boards that creek, thus successfully avoiding another two hours of getting the baby BACK to sleep.

Ice Hockey.  Don’t care for it.  But the box.  THE BOX.  Now THAT I could totally go for.  A safe “time out” place for the angry child that will destroy everything he can touch, (which means “time out” is in the middle of the room, on a stool, out of reach of anything to destroy).  Yes, THE BOX seems a much better solution than the padded room.

This thing called motherhood is an Olympic event every day that we wake up and get out of bed.  For the next.  twenty.  years.  There are no medals to be had.  No accolades for us.  Nope.  All we get are butterfly kisses, hugs for no reason, laughter over nothing at all, eyes that melt us like popsicles on the Fourth of July, stick figure pictures of our child’s hero (us), play dough all over the kitchen table with treasured creations all over the house, and sleeping  little angels in our arms every night.  And while I admire all the athletes I’m watching, and the hard work it took to get them there just now, they can keep their Olympic medals.  I’ll take my butterfly kisses any old day.

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