My Olympic Event: The Mommathalon (Part II)

I was in the running for a medal, I really was. I had a freshly diapered, properly clothed toddler on my hands. But every competitor knows the make-or-break event is the finale: getting to the ferry on time. Could I endure?

I looked at the kitchen clock: 2:11pm. The bus for the ferry came at 2:30pm, a full 15 minute walk away. I gave my son a hopeful sideways glance.

Somehow in the 1.3 seconds that it took for me to look away and then look back at him again, Noah managed to glue a raisin to his hair and brew an evil grin across his face.

"ACK! We're late! Grab your coat, we gotta hurry!" I said to Noah and the Raisin and the Evil Grin. I ran to his bedroom to pack the extra diapers NO Olympic mother can compete without, and returned to the race.

In blinding speed, I rescued my ballet flats from certain death inside the washing machine. I found my car keys tucked inside the toybox. I wrestled Noah into the jogging stroller, tied my little sister's birthday present to the handlebar and headed out onto the course.

There was no one cheering me on. I was an isolated Olympian. No one waved the Canadian flag, rang a cow bell, or belted out O Canada as I hustled up to the highway. I was the lone runner, until a little voice called out "FASTER mommy!" from the stroller below. That solitary cheer was good enough to keep me going.

Approaching the highway crossing, I had to execute my next move perfectly: cross the road without falling flat on my face or sending the stroller careening into a ditch. 

Could I do it? Did I have what it took to catch the bus, and medal with the world's best mommas? 

Alas, tragedy struck. The birthday present, which had been rattling back and forth as I sprinted towards the bus stop, suddenly dropped from the handlebars and crashed to the pavement below.

The gift - a variety of goth-inspired nail enamels, bounced off my right foot and shattered on the road below. I thought I could feel glass in my foot and looked down in horror to see my ankle covered in sticky liquid.

Thankfully, the liquid was glittery and black (nail polish, of course), and the pain was only my shattered ego. To add insult to injury, I looked up to see the bus drive by across the road. It left us in the dust and debris of shattered nail polish and broken Olympic dreams.

I looked at the pooling varnish on the roadside and the raisin glistening in my son's hair. "Babe, we missed the bus, honey!"

"Dat's okay mommy. Maybe next time." Noah said. Thanks for the cheer, little buddy. In the end, we called a cab and we STILL made it to the ferry on time. But no one was waiting with flowers and national anthems at the terminal.

Although I didn't collect an Olympic medal that day, I did enjoy a little bit of sunshine with my world class little one. And that's reason enough to celebrate for his Momma.