My name is Cristina Trapani-Scott. As I describe myself here in this spot, I sit ignoring Kid Two who is screaming my call sign, M.O.M., from a distant room in the corner of suburban bungalow. After a long day at work, will I go? Will I continue to sit here and wait for Kid Two to figure out that I graced her at birth with two working legs? What does my call sign stand for? Made of Moxy, but my kids prefer to just call me M.O.M. and think “Made” is actually spelled “Maid.” To get to the point, I am M.O.M. I’ve earned that title by having done any number of the following: heeding newspaper deadlines while fielding a phone call from Kid One who says he’s spilled pickle juice on his pants and needs a change of clothes; cleaning puke in business dress; working two hours, driving 40 minutes to Kid Two’s doctor, dropping Kid Two off at home and driving 40 minutes back to work until 10 p.m.; and more. I don’t claim to be a super M.O.M. I just am a M.O.M. and with that comes more than a few adventures. Come along and see how I navigate motherhood, work, cancer survivorship and more.
