Once in a while, I look at my children, and I wonder who these little people are who keep calling me ‘mom.’ And, more intriguingly, I wonder, who they think I am. Do they know that I have not the slightest idea what I am doing on this planet? That, whenever Jules hollers “Mom, I went pee and poo,” my head whirls around in search of that fat lady with smelly armpits who clambers up from her laundry pile to help junior with his predicament. It’s me, they mean! Poor kids - there is no one else. They actually think, they can rely on me. Me, little me - who never thought she was going to be a mom, least of all a butt-wiping one. And I try to pretend to the best of my abilities, because they are far too cute to disabuse of their lofty ideals. Not yet, anyway. Zoë, of course, is onto me. And I am glad, because I am no good at pretending.
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