I’d seen this before. It was purely reflexive, I knew, having watched Mr. Schrock at Kid Kaboom’s wrestling matches. He’d pinned more than a few imaginary opponents from his spot in the bleachers. I’d finally suggested an application of Liquid Nail to the seat of his britches, a suggestion he’d swiftly declined. Now, it appeared they were needing Liquid Nail in London.
I jotted it on my list of things to take along in case they approved my application to be Team Mom in the 2016 Olympics.
Come to think of it, they hadn’t gotten back to me on that. And I was still waiting to hear from Mr. Rogge, IOC Chairman, about the suggestions I’d made for beefing up his Games.
How long did a girl have to wait to get a phone call from these guys? Last go-round, I’d proposed the addition of some new events that would, I said, increase participation and interest exponentially. As it stood, the scope of the Games was awfully narrow, limited to teens and twenty-somethings who were barely shaving and had 2.5 percent body fat.
It had been a whole lotta years since I’d fit those demographics. Miss Four-Baby-Forty-Something wasn’t going to the Olympics as anything but a seat warmer and professional shouter. Not unless they opened up the Games to mothers, which is what I’d suggested to Jacques, the chairman.
I’d gone so far as to suggest it to Gov. Romney in an interview that hadn’t occurred just yet, asking him to pass it on to his recalcitrant buddy on the committee. “Diaper changing should be an Olympic sport.” This was the message I was trying to convey to Mr. Rogge as I waited, breathless, for the call that never came.