Well, well, well. It's been quite the controversial week (or so), has it not?
First of all was the faux mea culpa of Lance Armstrong. I'd comment on his whole biking-pants-on-fire business, but I'm just not talking to him right now.
Then there was Manti Te'o's confusing "catfishing" conundrum. It's still all about as murky as Lake Erie in late autumn, to be honest. Poor Manti. I am talking to him right now, but alas, he thinks I'm not a real person.
Not to be outpressed by the gentlemen, Mrs. Jay-Z found herself plopped into the middle of the national anthem-gate spotlight immediately following the presidential inauguration. Ah, Beyonce. I'll be trying to talk to her soon but will be mouthing the words while a pre-recorded message is played.
Two hmpfs and a sigh.
But arguably the biggest controversy this week was - wait for it - overprotective Mommy-ing right here in the Buckeye state. Guilty party? Um, moi.
It all started Wednesday when every school in the northern hemisphere was closed for a second consecutive day due to extreme cold. Every one, that is, but my son Kyle's. Oh, and the poor kids over in Austintown. We and they had to pile on layer after layer of Gortex hoodies, zip-up North Face thermal jackets then strap on heavy-tread Timberlands and trudge off to class while the other 90 percent of the schoolchildren in this part of the country stayed tucked warmly in their beds until about 2 p.m.
Either way, some of my pals chastised my decision to run home and make sure that my son was securely off to school after the dreaded two-hour delay.
Don't even get me started about the sheer absurdity of the two-hour delay. What, by 10 a.m. our 2-degree-Fahrenheit temps are suddenly going to spontaneously combust and sprinkle down sunbeams? What's next - palm trees springing out of sidewalks by noon?
Sorry, the cold is making me bitter. I digress.
A few of my buddies took me to task for making sure that my 13-year-old was awake, vertical, clothed, fed and safely on the bus by the time it finally rolled around the cul-de-sac that frigid morning. Um, he's a boy. I know 40-something-year-old men who fall back asleep and forget to pick me up at the airport when they're supposed to oops, sorry again. Either way.
At least my pal Chris Ruggieri of Warren supported my choice. I love her more than words.
Listen, I realize that, in America, many consider 12-year-olds to be near-adults. They can no longer attend daycare centers and are suddenly eligible for babysitting courses.
I think, in some states, 12-year-olds are able and encouraged to wrangle bulls at the rodeo, fly solo around the world in 80 days and charter king crab schooners and land starring roles on Discovery Channel's "Deadliest Catch."
But in my little corner of the world, becoming a teen is not synonymous with achieving absolute maturity and complete independence. Call me crazy.
Look, anything could've happened to Kyle in those four seconds it takes to get from our front door to the school bus.
I mean, some freakishly big, pterodactyl-sized hawk could have swooped down and carried him away to its nest or perhaps an off-course meteor could have come hurtling out of the sky right onto his head right at that exact moment. Or maybe the debt ceiling, exhausted from suspending itself in midair lo these many months, might have come crashing down right on top of him?
Yes, I'm a bit of a hover-er. Sure, I worry incessantly, tend to smother a bit and okay, maybe I didn't take him out in public until he was six.
But here's the truth: in five short years, my son will be going off to college. And I won't have these moments back again.
So, laugh if you must but I'm already ordering a weather-proof dome to be constructed from the house to the street to the school to the swim practice pool oh, shush, already people!
Kimerer is a Tribune Chronicle columnist and nervous Nellie of a mother. Contact her with the names and numbers of reputable bodyguards at firstname.lastname@example.org.