February 6, 2012

Dear Babies,

Here’s not a tip, but an order: Learn the game of football.

I mean it.

I have tried so many times over the years and for some reason, my brain cannot retain the information. It is a handicap I accept, like never being able to figure out Daylight Savings Time.

–“But if we’re springing ahead, it’s an hour earlier, right? So this time tomorrow it will be brighter, or darker, because it’s really 7:00 p.m.?”–

It would have been nice at all those Penn State football games to actually know what was going on on the field below me. (*Sobriety would’ve helped, too.) To know what was happening when a flag was called on a play. To not lean into someone and whisper, “is this bad?” To genuinely cheer from the heart instead of just knowing when to cheer when the Nittany Lion starts doing one-armed pushups. To not be preoccupied by the cheerleaders, the dancers, or yelling “Check out the Beaver on the field!” to the Wisconsin Badger (see earlier remark about sobriety)…

Shoot to last night, Super Bowl XLVI (46). Your father was pacing, grunting, hollering. I could not bother him with my questions. So I was left watching football the only way I know how: Eating chips, watching the commercials. My mind wandered to Tom Brady. What must it be like for his son, the product of him and supermodel Gisele, to go out into the world and see ugly people?

–“DAH! What’s that?!” “Why, son, that’s a human…”–

Just sayin’, it would be nice to watch and have your mind be in the game.

Love,

Mom

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