I am not a perfectionist. My mother has described me as a "cost accountant." I measure carefully whether the extra effort is worth the incremental improvement in product and then I act. I can look at a friend who is a much better cook than I and freely admit to discovering her secret as she separates the white from yolk in making her omelet. "I understand now," I told her. "You care more about cooking than I do."

This approach to life works for me. Oh, yes, I occasionally wish my house were cleaner. Then I think of all of the work it would take to get it that way and, as long as company is not coming, I declare it "good enough." Company raises my standards a bit but only a bit. And yes, I hate to admit it, but it depends what company is coming too.

But occasionally I get caught with a tough one. Today is one of those days. I need to decide whether I am merely a warm-weather mama. Deep down, I know I am. I just need to decide how much looking like a "good mother" matters to me. What exactly is it worth?

What is really at stake is my mornings. Day and I have fallen into a routine. We get up, we get ready, and she leaves me alone. In exchange, I come out with her and wait for the bus. Then I go to work. As we wait, we usually chat although we occasionally stand in companionable silence. It has been a lovely start to the day and well worth it.

But the weather changed this week---radically. It was only in the teens this morning as we shook and shivered and bounced before the bus came. We bundled but I have not yet adapted. Last week the highs were in the fifties. Today, it may have hit the mid-thirties. Welcome to winter�or at least it's beginning.

So, what is that chat in early morning worth? My enthusiasm has survived the rain. I just move the car down the driveway so we can see both directions (because the bus cannot decide if it is coming south or going north) and we sit inside until the last minute. The same technique will save us from the wind.

But a cold car is still a cold car. My hands and feet still cry out, "Heat. Heat. Please. Pleeeeeaaasseeee. Pretty please?" And they are yelling louder and louder. Eventually, they will yell so loud that I cannot hear Day.

I am a warm-weather mama but I'll make it---until we hit single digits. Then she's on her own.

|