What’s the difference between a soccer mom and Cazenovia? The soccer mom actually knows what season it is.
The Climate Center at Cornell recorded an average of higher temperatures in March than in April this year.
My daughters used up a snow day this year (which was blamed on a water main break) to bask in the sun on the deck in their bikinis. Then, last month, we had a good six inches fall on our flowers, leaves and barbecue grills.
I don’t know whether I should put my gloves away for the summer or just keep them in my bathing suit drawer.
My little girl joined the track team this year and had to jump hurdles in slush, short sleeves and shorts. Luckily, my wife insisted that she bring some long sweats to fortify her ensemble, because moms know.
I used to come home with aches and pains from football games and my mother would draw a bath with epsom salts. She would sew the elbows on my long sleeves and scrub the grass stains from my jeans with some old-school elixir that could double as wart remover. She would get me a blanket when I was cold.
Most days it rankled me, but there was no denying it, my mother was the boss. She was stubborn as a bag of wet cement and wielded a long-handled wooden spoon that she used so often she finally had to switch to metal. She was sharp as a razor and soft as a prayer.
In one breath, she could say you were the best but that it wasn’t good enough. Sometimes she was the wicked witch, but most times she was Cinderella. She could play cards like Paul Newman and sing like Julie Andrews. And when she died on that hospice bed in the middle of her own living room floor, I cried like never before, or since.