With no NFL games today, our family did not know what to do while eating our lunch. We flipped through NHL and NBA games neither of which featured a Chicago team.
Ethan: “What’s a Knick?”
Me: “It’s short for Knickerbockers.”
Ethan: “What’s a Knickerbocker?”
Me: ….. (Do I reference Justin Bieber’s pants or just keep silent?) …. (silence)
Just because it is the week between the conference finals and the Super Bowl does not mean we have to be without any NFL. Here’s my analogous inclusion.
This morning was the 2nd straight morning I lay in bed until the glorious hour of 8:45am. Parents, can I get an Amen?! That inspired me to yell at sleep-robbing parenthood the Richard Sherman taunt, “DON’T YOU TALK ABOUT ME!” Shazam! I felt like a college student on break waking up in time for a mid-afternoon snack. Sort of.
Parenthood was quick to remind me of its hand pushing my face away in the form of a pile of urine-soaked bedsheets greeting me when I finally rolled out of bed…from the guest room. The sheets were soiled at 5am when we were awoken by a feeble “I peed my pants.” They were OUR sheets since the culprit invaded our sleeping quarters in the middle of the night after a scary dream. Couldn’t it at least have happened on the already ring-stained kids’ mattress?! No, my too-old-to-be-having-accidents-but-having-two-this-week child christened my sacred sheets last night. The wet, stinky sheets and pajamas I had to deal with after a long (but disrupted) slumber was Crabtree tweeting back, “Film don’t lie.”
Then of course comes all the opinionated commentary. In a world where strong reactions can trump the precipitating event, my older son decides to throw in the mix, “Why did you stay in bed so long? If you had gotten up earlier, you could have made me pancakes before church!” Did Ethan just accuse me of being unsportsmanlike? While stirring his consolation oatmeal and yelling that their breakfast was ready, my younger son responds with “That’s not what I ordered.” His majesty’s bagel with butter was also ready; he just had not seen it. Or he saw it and wanted to remind me that my subservient existence is merely to meet his every need. Did Connor just call me a thug?
Sheets and pajamas are now clean. I am still feeling well-rested. And we are ready for the Super Bowl. After all this, I have to say that I am rooting for Renee Fleming’s Star-Spangled Banner and Bruno Mars‘ halftime show. It is like the win-win of my boys’ crawling in our bed at 8:45am on a lazy morning for unbeatable snuggle-buggles. Those cherished times are when parenthood and I are on the same team and loving it.