Every Sunday my baby becomes an orphan — an NFL orphan. The hubby and I are admitted football fanatics so when the clock strikes 10 on Sunday morning (during football season), our sweet baby girl is left to fend for herself. Not really! We’re not that horrible. But I’ll admit we pull out every single toy, fan them out on the floor, and let her have at it while we soak up every single touchdown on the Red Zone channel. At least we don’t handcuff her to the crib with a bottle and a book. Now that would be neglect.
I didn’t used to be the type of woman who liked football. I hated being an NFL widow. It was so annoying when the hubby watched countless hours every Sunday while I was left in the lurch. But if you can’t beat ’em…
Now I find myself yelling at the TV, cussing up a storm, all but grabbing my crotch and spitting on the ground. I used to think the sport was barbaric and now I’m the barbarian. My poor child has to witness her mother going ape when one of her players scores a 88-yard rushing TD or when her quarterback gets sacked and fumbles causing her to lose points.
I wonder what goes through my daughter’s head when she sees her mother and father jumping around like a couple of idiots, screaming at the weird picture box anchored to the wall. It must be quite a strange sight and will probably scar her for life. Maybe I should lock her up in her crib with a pair of noise-canceling headphones. Whatever it takes to keep her as close to normal as possible, because with parents as crazy as the two of us, she doesn’t stand a chance.