I’m a little relieved that the Olympics are over.

After I get the kids in bed, I just want to kick back and watch a bit of “Kathy Griffin: My Life on the D-List” or perhaps “Project Runway.” That’s it. I’m not all fancy with my TV. I don’t need the HD channels. I don’t need sophisticated fare. Just some Kathy and I’m satisfied.

Except during the Olympics, I feel guilty. I feel shallow.

How can I possibly enjoy comedian Kathy Griffin’s romance with Apple co-founder Steve Wozniak (it’s incredible those two lovebirds didn’t make it) when the most amazing athletes of our time might be creating emotional Olympic moments of victory or defeat just a few channel’s away.

I mean, Kathy is admitting on Bravo that Steve Wozniak didn’t “click (her) mouse” (and yes, I believe she is talking about the big O) while Michael Phelps is wringing seemingly endless gold medals from the water cube. See? You really can’t compare the two.

So every once in awhile, fearing that I was missing out on the quintessential, inspirational sporting experience, I’d put Kathy on pause and put on the Olympics.

And it would be beach volleyball. Wait – that’s a different sport from volleyball? No. Really?

Or maybe long distance running, which is a lot of running for a very long distance.

Or a commercial.

So I’d switch back to Kathy.

I did get really sucked into some Olympic events. Like the diving. And the gymnastics. And the swimming.

But generally, I’m glad to be off the hook.

Except that the Democratic National Convention takes place this week. And well, then there’s the Republic National Convention. I’ve always felt passionate about politics and even did a stint in Washington, DC. So, how can I not tune in for at least the big speeches?

This only happens every four years for gosh sakes. In a few short months, the DESTINY OF OUR COUNTRY will be in the hands of the American public. Michelle Obama, Caroline Kennedy Schlossberg and Ted Kennedy are demanding my attention tonight.

Poor Kathy. That chick’s on pause again. Such is life on the D-List.

mama bird notes:

Contributing mama Daphne Biener has sent her baby to kindergarten and well, it has left her feeling a little achy and a bit breaky. You try not to tear up by the end of this piece. Click on contributing mamas to read more.

By Contributing Mama Daphne Biener

School started yesterday, and for the first time I packed not one but two backpacks, brushed out two ponytails, washed two faces and watched my two babies-no-more board a big old school bus.

Kira, ever the big sister, was all business, ushering little sis down the aisle of the rickety yellow vehicle with no seat belts that surely would take the first hill at full speed and launch itself out into the roiling ocean in a mass of molten metal and new sneakers.

Yeah, I know it’s unlikely and yes, I know there’s no ocean out here. Who invited you to throw logic at the twisted irrational games my head loves to play?

I’m sure there is a rational explanation for why school buses don’t have seat belts. On Monday the law mandates that I strap my 30 pounder into a five point harness. Come Tuesday, she marches onto the bus-o-death with a lit cigarette and a beer as she rides off towards launch-time.

Ok, maybe that’s an exaggeration. Maybe it’s just that my science-adverse mind can’t grasp the law of physics that explains why my kids won’t go flying ass-over-lunchbox in the event of an Evel Knievel-style feat en route to school. That’s besides the point though. Unfathomable bus regulations are not my main concern today.

Today my heart aches because, well, to be honest, kindergarten got off to a bit of a rocky start. Acadia did not find it oh so exciting to be a big girl whatsoever. In fact, other than the bus ride, she could not find one positive thing to say about her first day at elementary school. (Ah, I’m starting to understand why seat belts are skipped and the bus ride’s a blast.)

Acadia was ready for kindergarten. She swings like a monkey from the highest bar at the park. She loves to sing. She swims like a fish underwater. She writes her letters and draws her pictures and sets the table and makes her own bed. She does it all, as long as nobody is watching. She hates attention. It has only taken me four years and eight months to learn this about my youngest.

It’s not that I haven’t been clued in. I never peel my eyes off of that little body in motion. And it’s not that she looks so much like her big sister that I assume she’ll be just like her. Could it be that I myself adore the spotlight so much that I cannot conceive of anyone shunning center stage? I don’t know. I hope not.

All I know is that day one after school my tightly wound bundle of nerves had a tummy ache and it took my best cajoling before she finally offered up this cryptic message about why kindergarten was a blazing pot of misery:

“All the grownups kept looking me right in the eye. It wasn’t good.”

Psych majors, your interpretations are welcomed.

She temper-tantrumed herself right to sleep, but I was up all night, trying in vain to devise a way in which I could make it all good. Prove to her that it would be better tomorrow and even better the next day and so on and so on until the day comes when she laughs in disbelief at the story of her first terrible day of school.

This morning I proudly watched as she squared her shoulders and marched onto the bus for day two. She is a strong kid, and I know she’ll be fine. I just wish she didn’t have to be strong just yet. I wish that it was still my job to hold her and fight off her scary stuff. I wish I were the one handling her problems with a kiss and a promise. But I’m not. And I know that finding her own way is just as important as any lesson in counting or phonics will ever be.

Which leaves me sitting here at home, dwelling on the reality that my chickadees are out there in the world armed with little more than their knowledge of the alphabet, a new box of crayons, and a snack packed by mom. And I’m ok with that. Really. It’s just that my tummy kind of hurts.

To read more of Daphne’s work, visit her eco-fabulous blog, A Greener Biener.

I did not jump on the Sigg eco bandwagon quickly. I wanted to. Oh, how I wanted to. But I tried a Sigg bottle and I just wasn’t grooving with it. I was still addicted to plastic. But with every plastic water bottle I purchased, my guilt grew.

Then at the Blogher conference, I received a cool .6 liter Sigg bottle with a Leap Frog logo for free. I really like free. So I tried it and this time, I was hooked.

Then, of course, I lost it. Damn. But there is no turning back. I’m sticking with Sigg. Time to dig up some cash and buy one. I’m kind of partial to this white bottle with the Sigg logo but there are a ton of different designs to choose from. So green mamas… go hydrate and protect our earth!

Ok, maybe I’m a little cranky.

Well… do you feel it?

The end of summer blues.

School starting up, vacations suddenly behind us and a certain clear crispness that is beginning to permeate the air. Yup. I can definitely feel fall waiting in the wings, all ready to pounce.

So, quite predictably, I’m already dreading that evil, bitter, icky, long winter. Apparently, it is possible to obsess over winter in August.

My friend Julie is the one who pointed out that I get all panicked like this every year. She’s obviously right.

Last winter, I was so grateful because I met another mother in my building. One that was cool and awesome and normal. We would pass the dark, cold afternoons chatting away as our kids played together in the lobby.

And she just announced she’s moving to the SUBURBS.

In October. Damn, that’s before the first winter chill.

Crap. I’m happy for her. But crap. So we immediately bought a house on the same block as hers. No, no… I won’t stalk her to Westchester.

Instead, I’m just trying to appreciate every moment of these glorious, sunny, perfectly warm August days.

I’ve been taking my kids for gelato in the afternoons… an attempt to ever so slightly extend our Italian holiday on the streets of New York.

Summer insists on strawberry ice cream EVERY TIME. Look, I certainly support her individual choices but I’m the one who has to keep licking it so it doesn’t all end up in a puddle on her lap. And strawberry is just… I don’t know… really totally not chocolate chip.

Dylan, who misses her nights out in the piazza, keeps asking me, “When do we get to go out at night again?” Somehow books and songs are just not measuring up to sprinting down the quaint, stone alleyways of Polignano in her pink, plastic, princess heels.

Oh girl, I promise before I have to throw a jacket on you, I’m taking you out at night. Maybe a little ice cream underneath the city lights. Dylan’s favorite flav is chocolate which, by the way, totally kicks strawberry’s arse.

For all of you who love strawberry ice cream, please don’t be offended by this post. Although I may not understand you, I certainly respect your ice cream choices. And if you ever want to explore some other, less gross flavors, I am here to help and support you.

So if you saw Michael Phelps on the cover of Sports Illustrated…

…did it remind you of former Olympian Mark Spitz (as intended)?

Or instead, did it remind you of actor Jim Carrey, in Jenny McCarthy’s bikini?

Because at first glance, I thought Michael Phelps was wearing a women’s bathing suit. But maybe I’m just weird. That’s definitely a possibility.

Meanwhile, how do people figure out that they are good at sports like pole vaulting and discus throwing? I mean, it’s not like their mom thought, “Hey, Harry could use an activity on Tuesday afternoons. Maybe I’ll sign him up for javelin throwing at the Y.” Or is that how it indeed works?

And finally (I do realize this is enormously shallow with the depth of the athletic talent and commitment on display at the Olympics) couldn’t they have designed cuter outfits for the women’s gymnastics team?

I guess if you win a gold medal, who gives a crap what you’re wearing? My apologies for my superficial comments, I just caught up on my “Project Runway” episodes and fashion design is obsessively on my brain.

By the way, when are they going to kick off… I think I have impeccable taste but I really don’t… Daniel? I just can not watch his sad, brown, weepy eyes as he gets completely trashed by the judges again. And Keith with the crazy thick bandanna around his head? I mean, why? Why is he wearing that?!

Ah… after three weeks in Europe, U.S. pop culture never felt so good.

mama bird notes
We have a new contributing mama, Karen Palmer Bland, and she is hilarious! And I’m not just saying that because she was my college sorority big sister (yes, seriously). Click on contributing mamas to read her insights on finding the perfect, most definitely overqualified babysitters.

You know how much I love Pingg (the most fabulous, gorgeous alternative to icky evite). Well, Pingg just gave me a new reason to adore them. Now for your next shindig, you can create an invite with the mama bird logo!! I mean, can your life get ANY better than that? Here’s a sample! Yahoo Pingg!

And finally, I want to thank Erin at Follow My Folly for saying such sweet things about me and giving me this very lovely award. I truly enjoy her blog and I hope you’ll run over there and give it a read.