I've got Olympic Fever.

 

Aah, the Olympic Games are upon us.  A magical time, when millions of people the world over put aside their differences to celebrate the universal appeal of sport.  And, if you have a family like mine, turn into Olympic-induced insomniacs, who know every athlete by name including the ones made up entirely of consonants…

 

Poland?  I'm looking at you.

 

I come from a long and distinguished line of fervent Olympic followers.  Going back as far as one whole generation, my main direct descendant (read: my mom) would, and I swear I am not making this up, book her annual vacation time maybe even decades in advance to coincide with the Olympic Games – thus allowing her to enjoy the games in all of their pomp and pageantry, absolutely uninterrupted.  From the lighting of the torch like they did with an arrow at the 1992 Games in Barcelona ("An ARROW?  He could MISS!  Do they not have STAIRS in Barcelona?!?!") to the dramatic display of the closing ceremonies ("Athens did such a good job with all of those Leaping Greeks!") – my mother was, Queen of Hilarious Olympic Commentary, and Olympic Follower of Ridiculous Proportions. 

 
 

Growing up, she didn't raise me in the stereotypical sports-crazed Canadian way.  We didn't watch sports (Saskatchewan Roughrider Games notwithstanding), or partake in sporting activities that required any kind of commitment.  Virtually the only exposure I had to sport was what I saw during the Olympic Games.  One of my fondest Olympic memories was when the ridiculously-and-still-adorable Elizabeth Manley won Silver at the Calgary '88 games.  Seriously!  How could a 10-year-old-me, and the entire nation not fall in love with the human equivalent of a happy little chipmunk on skates?  We were powerless against her cuteness!  And have you seen her lately?  I have officially given her the title of Cutest Eyebrows In Canada.  And back in Calgary (her, not me) when she made her teary, giggling way off the ice, I distinctly recall thinking: "I need a hot pink figure skating outfit, pronto"; followed by, "The easiest way to do that would be to actually meet Elizabeth Manley who would undoubtedly be so nice and happy and chipmunk-y that she'll probably let me borrow hers".  Thus, Operation Elizabeth Manley began and still continues.  Ooh, I wonder if she's planning on being in Vancouver? 

 
 

Moving right along... Although I cherish my Olympic memories, having the Olympics as my sole source of sport information came with one major drawback.  You see, no one ever bothered to tell me that everything I was watching looked so easy BECAUSE I WAS WATCHING OLYMPIC ATHLETES.  And being that I was a child of decidedly little common sense, I didn't have mental capacity to figure out that pole vaulting on the front lawn using the closest possible substitution for a pole (read: a shovel) would only result in physical disaster and tearful apologies to a mean lookin' neighbor for breaking his perfectly good garden implement.  And I am not the only child that grew up lacking an innate sense of danger.  I personally know someone who, as a child, saw Alpine Skiing for the first time and proceeded to jump off the roof of a garage.  Can you imagine?  What my mom said to his mom was "We should thank our lucky stars he doesn't have any serious injuries" but what she said to me was "Lise, that kid was a quarter inch away from licking windows for the rest of his life."  It is a small wonder any of us reach adulthood given that all children (including yours) think that if they see it, they can do it.

 
 

This overconfidence was never better illustrated than when recently, when, in a moment of complete parental madness, I decided to show off my mad gymnastics skills to my 7 year-old-daughter.  We had just been mistakenly upgraded to a hotel room so opulent and spacious, that the entire Canadian Women's Hockey Team could have comfortably stayed with us.  (And in the interest of full disclosure, yes, I did consider notifying the front desk of the error, but almost immediately decided against it and instead ran a bath, ordered a bottle of champagne and giggled at the thought of an irate Arab Sheikh/Oil Barron/Movie Star slummin' it in the room we should have got.  HaHa!  Suckers!).

 
 

Getting back to the story…Like I said: the room?  Was huge.  And what does one do with all of that awesome upgraded hotel space?  All the potentially damaging activities that you yourself forbid in your own home, of course!  Effortlessly, I took off in a sprint across the heavily patterned and deliciously plush carpet and completed an elegant string of two or perhaps three whole cartwheels that I am telling you?  Would have made Mary-Lou (1984-All-Around-Gymnastics-Champion) Retton jealous.  In response, my daughter decided to follow suit.  I think it would be prudent for you to know that the very same daughter ended her gymnastics career in a snit at the age of 4 after the skill of skipping with both feet and in a straight line eluded her.  You can imagine my horror, when I spied my girl (whom you should also know has legs longer than a giraffe) beginning her tumbling run.  I swear:  In less time than I could say "minor concussion", her skinny little arms had collapsed – leaving her poor little blonde head to land, nay – plow – face-first into the carpet – followed instantly with odd angles of collapsing, flailing, giraffe legs.  Like any good (read: bad) parent, my horror immediately turned to unabashed hilarity when we confirmed that besides a goose egg on her forehead, she had no life altering injuries as a result.

 
 

Anyway, the Vancouver Olympics are just around the corner – and this time, they've taken on special meaning.  Not only is this an opportunity for Canada to shine like a brand new toonie on the world stage (Go Team Canada!), but also, because like Elizabeth Manley, I too, recently lost my mom to cancer.  The way I see it, I have a choice.  Either I can let the Olympics go by quietly, thus circumventing the inevitable sting of grief that comes with knowing that these Olympics will be yet another time that missing her will cause visceral sort of pain, or, I can pick up the torch my mom left me and run with it like Ben Johnson after mandatory drug testing – instilling that same sense of excitement and pride (read: abject humiliation) to my own son and daughter.  And... I think that as of this very moment, I'm choosing the latter.

 
 

So, starting tomorrow, after my children get inspired by the athletes they see on CTV to break land speed records travelling (knowing them, face-first) downhill in their custom cardboard-duct-taped-to a-toboggan-bobsled, I'll be right there watching them. 

 

From the window, I mean.  And only if they stay close to the house.  Because I?  Am claiming my birthright.  As The New Queen of Hilarious Olympic Commentary and Olympic Follower of Ridiculous Proportions. 

 

And if anything else, just remember this:  Poland?  I'm looking at you.