Which Mom Is My Mom?

I’ll do this one now while I have it in mind: the ‘which Mom is my Mom’ story.
Way back when Jeanie and I were both without husbands or other male companionship, and the kids were quite small, Penny was maybe 6 or 7 or so, Sara 3 or 4, Mary 2 or 3, somewhere along in there, we decided it would be fun to take them to The North Pole, a Santa Claus themed tourist trap up in Wilmington, NY, at the foot of Whiteface Mountain. So my folks went to Indian lake, and I guess the kids rode up with them, probably they left early in the day and Jeanie and I went up later, probably after we got off work. We think that was the trip where the guy ran into the side of the Saab, again another story and no one including the cars got hurt.
At any rate, this was before we had our own place up there, and we were staying at Margaret’s cabin down on the lake. We got up early Saturday morning and crammed all of us (as I remember) into the Saab – that’s four adults and three kids, mind you - and took off for the North Pole. It was fall, and cold. We made lunch to bring along and stopped at a rest area to eat. Well, my father decided he wanted some thing hot and so he built a fire and was trying to toast a cheese sandwich over it, holding it with two sticks. And then, because it was fall and cold and in the mountains it started to snow, so there we were in the snow, having a picnic, and my father was still trying to toast the cheese sandwich, without dropping it in the fire. I have pictures.
Continued on to the North Pole, met the elves and Santa Claus, had the pictures taken with Santa, the whole deal. Crammed back into the car and went back through Indian Lake, of course taking a different route to see more of the countryside.
When we got back, we had supper, visited for a while and then somehow my sister and I got together with some friends there and went out. We hit every tavern in and around Indian Lake – which is more than you might expect for a town that size – and ended up in somebody’s apartment after the taverns closed. (I was teasing ‘Uncle’ LeRoy when we visited him last Sunday that every place we went, he managed to end up there that night.) I think it was maybe around 4 a.m. when we finally made it home and fell into bed, pulled the covers over our heads and went to sleep.
Kids being kids, they got up at about 7, way before we were ready to be mothers. Sara toddled into the bedroom, and went back and forth between the beds staring at each of us. Nothing showed but the tops of our heads. After several minutes of staring, but not moving the covers, she went back to the other end of the house where my parents were sleeping and said, nice and loud: “Grammy- Grammy, which mom is my mom?”
PS, this is the same Sara who would invariably know when I had been out too late on a Saturday night and come in to my room early on Sunday mornings, and start patting me on the forehead and say “Mommy – Mommy, make me eggies!”