Mother of the Year Award

Without getting all sickeningly drippy on you and going on about how I got the best one of the bunch (those kind of blogs make me a bit pukey), and without any flowery accolades, the Mother of the Year Award goes to, non other than, Mr (Jessica) C. (Please forgive the semi-emasculating title, but without it you wouldn't know who I was talking about).

This week required the splitting up of our family into two functioning teams. Mom and AirBear (in hospital) and Dad and T-Bird (at home/ school/ work). We're talking survival mode - batten down the hatches time.

In this time, Mr C was a better mother than I could ever have been. And trust me, I'm not just saying that, it takes a lot of humility to unpin my super-mommy badge and hand it over. This guy coped like, well, like a woman (without the tearful, moody, once-a-month madness, of course).

By the time I got back, for one, the house was still standing. Laundry was washed, sorted and folded. Beds were made. Accounts were paid (I think...). Bunnies were still alive, clean and fed. Dishes clean and packed away. Overall, home sweet home.

What's that you say? Any man could do those things (if they tried)? Yes, you're right. But, riddle me this: how many men can master the fairly-even-5-year-old-split-plait?

Exactly.

No more arguing. My hubby gets the prize.

(I know of a dad who was left in a similar situation for a week. Tying is daughter's hair up was a perplexing problem, until he discovered, if he placed the elastic band over the nozzle of the vaccuum cleaner, held the pipe over his daughter's head, turned the machine on, and slipped the elastic down over the sucked up hair, he would be able to put most of her fly-away hair into a cute little fountain atop her noggin. Guess these guys can do anything if they put their mind to it...)