Candy Woodall is the business reporter for The York Dispatch, wife to the funniest man alive and mother of four joyful children who unfortunately act just like their parents.

Recent NFL scandals have had many sports analysts asking, “What if Janay Rice was your daughter?”

They often answer their own questions and tell viewers if their daughter was the wife of the former Baltimore Ravens running back, Ray Rice, they would demand justice for the abuse depicted in a video first shared by TMZ.

The incident has sparked much debate, an investigation by a former FBI director and calls for the resignation of  NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell.

Less than a week later, news broke that Minnesota Viking running back Adrian Peterson was indicted on a child abuse charge.

Again, analysts started asking questions: “What if you were the child’s mother? If your children were friends, would you ever let your child go to his house?”

The question we need to be asking more is, what if Ray Rice and Adrian Peterson were your sons?

Too many mothers either bury their heads in the sand or blatantly lie for their children when they know they’re at fault.

That’s not loyalty. That’s not good parenting.

Most of the time it looks like nothing more than someone refusing to admit their child is not perfect for fear of how it reflects on them. Mothers are afraid to admit their child screwed up because that might mean they screwed up, and perfect moms never screw up.

Children are human beings, and human beings make mistakes. Children grow into adults, and adults make even bigger mistakes.  Sometimes they even commit crimes.

That doesn’t mean they had a terrible mother.

People just lose their way sometimes.

All kinds of moms have produced criminals. All kinds of moms have raised heroes. And, in the end, nearly all of us end up with our own brand of crazy.

One of the major differences is being the mom who is willing to admit your child needs help. Do that. Then get them the help they need. Hold their hands. Be there through every step of their recovery. Be their rock. Be their parent, not their enabler.

That’s what I would do for all of my children.

If my sons were Ray Rice and Adrian Peterson, I wouldn’t stop loving them. We have an unconditional bond, and nothing will ever break it.

But they would be sure what they’ve done is wrong, and they would face the consequences of their actions.

My 7-year-old son, Ty, once asked me about bullying after he sat through a school assembly. “Mom, do the police take you away if you bully someone?”

“If things go too far, yes they can,” I said.

“Do bullies go to the principal’s office?” he said.

“If they’re in school, sure. But you know what’s worse than the principal or police if my son has bullied someone?” I said.

“What?” he said.

“Me,” I said.

It’s easy with a 7 year old. I imagine it’s much harder with an adult child who has the access and ability to make as many mistakes as possible.

As mothers, I think our first instinct is to protect our children. But we’re not protecting them if we’re covering up for them, making excuses for them and lying for them.

We must always be the parent, never the accomplice.

Since my family moved from Pittsburgh last year, there are many things we have grown to love about York County: the better weather, the proximity to big cities, the gorgeous views, the good people and the many options to pick-your-own anything.

The Pittsburgh area also has its share of places to pick pumpkins and strawberries, and we enjoyed our 35-minute drives to Trax Farms to do so.

When choosing our new home in York, I was thrilled to move near Brown’s Orchards & Farm Market. Throughout the last year, we’ve gone there for pumpkins, berries and apples.

Last week, my sons and I went there to pick strawberries while my husband and daughter practiced softball. (They’ll be joining us on our next trip to pick strawberries.)

Before coming upon the low rows of strawberries, we smelled them. The sweet, unmistakable smell of the red, ripe berries married with the early-morning humidity.

Ty was very happy with the strawberries we picked.

Seeing Ty and Dimitri run toward the fields with excitement gave me such joy. And Dimitri, who loves to shake hands these days, greeted the fellow pickers around us.

Many folks in the fields that morning had bigger plans for the berries than we did. They were making pies and dishes far more advanced than my cooking talents.

We used some in pancakes, but we mostly enjoyed them as snacks–free of any other ingredients.

Ty asked me to carry the cardboard box, in which we stored our berries, while he and Dimitri inspected plants for the best fruit.

“Mom, if they’re still white, it means they’re not ready,” Ty said.

I loved the way he paid attention to each berry, searching for the good picks.

Dimitri seemed to approach it as a race; he wanted to see how many berries he could pick in the shortest amount of time.

It was so nice to be in the fields with my boys, working as a team and continuing one of our favorite family traditions.

Once our box was full, we took it to be weighed and pay for what we picked. It was an opportunity to teach the boys about money, and they helped me count out what we owed.

During our drive home, Ty was so happy to hold the berries, feeling proud of our work.

And, as I quickly realized, Dimitri learned something also.

“It’s OK to pick strawberries, but it’s not OK to pick your nose,” he said.

The Woodall kids are some of my favorite comedians.

The following conservations–which Facebook kindly preserved for me during the last six weeks–are good examples of why they have me laughing several times a day.

(This one proves I’m one of those people who cleans more thoroughly when I know we’re getting company)
Cienna: Nana and Pappy are visiting this weekend. You know what that means.
Ty: What? We get toys?
Cienna: It means Mom is going to make us clean underneath all the couches.

(This one proves Ty thinks school breaks extend to chores at home)
Larry: It’s time to clean the playroom, guys.
Ty: But, Dad, we’re on winter break until Tuesday.

(This one proves some kid-friendly restaurants pick interesting background music)
Cienna: So did this guy write this song before or after he had one bourbon, one scotch and one beer?

(This one proves Dimitri frequently tries to make his own rules)
Me: Dimitri, did you just pee in the (bathroom) garbage can?
Dimitri: Yes my did.
Me: Why?
Dimitri: Boys pee everywhere.

(This one proves I have frequently exposed my daughter to the Rolling Stones)
Dimitri: Can I have the iPad now?
Me: It’s not your turn right now. It’s your sister’s turn.
Dimitri: But my said please.
Me: Yes, you did, and that was nice. But it’s Cienna’s turn now.
Ty: You can’t always get what you want, Dim.
Cienna: But you get what you need.

Late winter never really gets its due.

Most of my friends have been lamenting the snow and colder temperatures since December. In fairness, the majority of them live in Pittsburgh, New York and Boston where the season hasn’t been mild like the weather York has seen.

But in our family, this has always been an exciting time of year. I was lucky to have my 4-year-old son during the weekend of the Golden Globes, and my 6-year-old son was born the weekend of the Academy Awards. So I’ve always used the awards weekends as an excuse to have dress-up parties, during which we pretend we’re classy enough for the red carpet and fill out ballots to pick who we think will go home with the awards.

This weekend, when Seth McFarlane hosts the Oscars on Sunday, we will celebrate once again. I will inevitably hang on McFarlane’s every word, as he is my favorite kind of genius and I’ve accepted that my sense of humor never matured past age 13.

The kids won’t really make it past the first half hour of the show, nor will they really care about that half hour. They’re in it for the snacks and the best animated feature film.

Cienna, Ty and Dimitri unanimously agree “Wreck-It Ralph” should “win the gold.”

Though they’ll go to sleep long before  the show ends, my husband will still have to suffer through my critique of gowns and speeches.

Oh, and I’ll cry.

He predicts I’ll  even cry during the tribute to James Bond movies.

It’s quite possible. Pregnancy hormones have recently made me cry during the trailers for “The Great and Powerful Oz,” “Jurassic Park” and “Man of Steel.” In fairness, my friend Joe, who works in the TV and movie industry in Los Angeles, also cried during the trailer for “Jurassic Park.” Maybe we’re just sad we’re 20 years older than when we first saw it.

I’m definitely that pregnant woman who cries during Hallmark commercials and is totally in love with her family. It’s as though every day I find a new reason to be thankful for what I have.

So the colder weather doesn’t bother me, even if those same hormones have prevented me from being able to get warm even one day this season.

I’m looking forward to this weekend and all that next month has to offer: finding out if Baby Woodall is a boy or girl, the beginning of the kids’ soccer and baseball seasons, weekend adventures, St. Patrick’s Day, Easter and more.

Oh, and next month spring begins.

But there’s still some winter left to enjoy.

Cienna, Ty and Dimitri were happy to see Santa, who on Sunday was visiting Brown’s Orchards & Farm Market in Loganville.

All Dimitri wants for Christmas is 10.

Every time my 3–year-old son visits Santa, he holds up his hands and spreads his fingers, showing the man in red that he wants 10 things.

He’s not discriminative about which 10 things he wants–choo choos, Power Rangers, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and SpongeBob toys will all suffice.

Usually, his visits with Santa are so quick he doesn’t have time to rattle off his list. Long lines at malls and other places have discouraged him and my other children from doing much more than sitting on Santa’s lap and smiling quickly for an overpriced photo package.

We were all delighted to recently find an adorable alternative at a Loganville farm.

My family and I regularly shop at Brown’s Orchards & Farm Market, and we were pleasantly surprised to learn Santa also patronizes the community hub.

On Sunday, signs directed us to the Greenhouse Wonderland, where Santa was perched on a bench next to a bowl of candy canes, surrounded by a makeshift Christmas landscape.

There weren’t any long lines, parents took their own photos, children talked to Santa for as long as they needed to, and they all walked away with peppermint candy canes and the promise of Christmas morning in their eyes.

Ty, my 5-year-old son, was quick to give Santa a piece of advice almost as good as the cookies we will leave for him Monday evening.

“If you don’t want to walk up steps with all those toys, you don’t have to use our front door. You can go to the back door, and there are no steps there to our living room,” Ty said.

Regardless of which door Santa chooses, I can’t wait to see which presents he leaves for my kids, all the while knowing their joy and excitement are the best gifts of all.

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Santa will be at Brown’s again from 5 to 7 p.m. Wednesday, when kids eat for free at Brown’s Cafe & Coffee Bar with each adult meal purchased.

If you miss Santa on Wednesday, he will return to farm 10 a.m. to 3 p.m. Saturday and from 11 a.m. to 3 p.m. Sunday.

For more information on events at Brown’s or to see a menu for the cafe, visit www.brownsorchards.com.

When something terrible happens, child psychologists say it’s best to be brief when trying to explain tragedy to kids.

So when Cienna, 9, and Ty, 5, had questions about the school massacre that took the lives of 20 children in Connecticut, I did my best to answer them.

Ty, who adores going to Kindergarten, was full of fear. With tears in his eyes, he asked, “Is the bad guy coming here next?”

I struggled to be strong and answer my son without crying. I tried to chase away images of a community living in horror during a season that’s supposed to be full of hope. I also tried to learn what my children heard about the crime between the school bus and our front door.

“No, he is not coming here. He is not alive anymore, and he will never hurt anyone again,” I said.

Deep down, I knew the gunman’s actions would affect some families forever, but I was trying to make my children feel safe and secure.

Cienna’s questions were a little harder to answer.

“Why would someone kill a little kid?” she asked.

I didn’t know. I still don’t know.

“There are bad people in the world, and somtimes they do terrible things. But you are safe, you are loved and everything will be OK,” I said.

Even as I said that, I silently prayed they wouldn’t become hardened by the collection of similar tragedies in recent years. I don’t want them to be afraid of going to hear a U.S. lawmaker speak or to attend the opening night of an anticipated movie or to shop at the mall or go to school.

“For every bad person, there are hundreds of good people. Thousands of good people. Millions of good people,” I said.

And I wasn’t being hyperbolic. In my lifetime, I’ve learned at least one thing to be true: For every villain, there’s a hero.

I knew I had done my job when their frowns faded away.

Soon, things started to feel a little closer to normal as I watched them play soccer with one of our neighbors.

The mother of my children’s friend sat next to me. I made her a cup of tea, and we enjoyed it in silence.

We had no words.

Maybe we were thankful to hear the laughter of our children. Maybe we felt guilty for feeling thankful.

But mostly our hearts were heavy as we thought and prayed for parents who would never hear that laughter again.