Spending special time with kids is worth every minute of a "Wallace and Gromit" marathon

My son is a boy's boy, a rough and tumble kid. He likes football, plays baseball, watches racing. He doesn't hold hands with mom much anymore, and he only says "I love you" at night.

So that's why I owe a big debt of gratitude to "Wallace and Gromit."

I don't know if you've seen this British series, but my kids love it. I think it's just okay - but I'll admit, it's growing on me.

There are "Wallace and Gromit" movies and "Wallace and Gromit" shorts, and they all revolve around the harrowing adventures of cheese-loving Wallace and his very intelligent dog Gromit.

There was a marathon of shows on the other night. My son came up to me as I wrote on the computer.

"Mom," he said. "Do you want to watch TV together in your room? 'Wallace and Gromit' is on!"

I couldn't jump out of my chair fast enough. We giggled, snacked and snuggled - me, the boy and about 20 Mario plushies - for hours. His sister, sometimes far too sophisticated for such things, even saw we were having a plushie party and joined in.

As my kids get older, these invitations don't come as often as they used to. I'll take as many as I can get. Even if I have to watch an entire "Wallace and Gromit" marathon.

My mom role model: With bouncy curls and perfect pants, she's just like looking in a mirror. Yeah, kind of ...

I saw my mom role model today after I dropped my son off at school. She was walking in front of me in her cute little white capris and a matching spring jacket.

She had on those pert little socks that barely show above your tennis shoes, the ones that have the little balls that peek out from over the heels of your shoes.

I almost missed her; I was bent over, tucking my pants cuffs under because they were too long and I refused to wear heels. I didn't have on a cute spring jacket - I couldn't find one in the labyrinth that is our hall closet. In fact, I was wearing what my husband calls my "grandma sweater;" it was bequeathed to me years ago from a former cubicle mate who took pity on me when I, um, couldn't find a spring jacket.

My mom role model has bouncy curls and perfect makeup that she likely does not apply in the rear view mirror on the way to work.  A quick glance at her nails tells me that they are filed into nice ovals, that the thumb nail is not bitten to the quick from stress, and the other nails are not covered with weird white polish that was on sale for $5 at Sephora because, it turns out, it looks like White-Out.

My mom role model smiles at me when she walks by, and her teeth are white and shiny. She must not be a writer; she probably doesn't stay up late drinking lots of coffee and developing new plot lines.

I don't know her, per se. Well, okay, I don't know her at all.  But I bet we could be friends. As long as she doesn't have a twin. Because really, there's only so much perfection I can handle.

Through children's eyes, trip to the museum because almost as educational as the exhibit

The other day, we took the kids to the Henry Ford museum to see an exhibit on the Titanic. I couldn't wait - I've always been fascinated by the saga of the doomed ship: the heroism, the cowardice, all the events that had to coincide for the Titanic to meet her fate.

I didn't think the kids would get all of it, of course, but I knew at the very least there was an iceberg there - and I was betting they'd get a kick out of that. What I didn't count on was what they'd notice long before the doors to the exhibit even opened.

To get to the museum, we took a strip of highway I travel nearly every day to get to work. It's not pretty. It's bare and gritty, lined with vacant, weedy lots, run-down businesses and strip clubs.

It's a far cry from our peaceful, tree-lined subdivision. But I've seen the sights so often I don't even pay attention to them anymore.

But my kids did. "Who lives in those?" my daughter said, pointing to a dilapidated trailer court by the side of the road.

"Why are those there?" she wondered, pointing at old shopping carts at a deserted bus stop.

My daughter has always been kind-hearted. One time she went with me on a newspaper assignment to a food bank; she watched as the families lined up and loaded up their groceries. Still very young, she watched the kids clinging to their parents in the huge gymnasium.  Later, she asked me if she could learn to sew someday - maybe she could make teddy bears, she said, so that those kids could get one when they came in. "Everyone needs a teddy bear," she told me.

On the trip, she sat quietly in the back seat, watching the scenery. "This makes me sad," she said quietly, almost to herself.

It was sad - is sad. Sad, too, that I see it so often I'd almost stopped noticing it.