I play sports. I watch sports. I like sports. However, if I must endure one more story or monologue from Evan about some random football headline, then I might lose it. I really don't care that the Kansas City QB was/is (I don't even remember because I was trying to find my happy place about mid-story) out for emergency surgery. I don't need to know the records of every NFL football team. Although, I think I was told this week that the North Carolina Panthers have the worst. I didn't even remember they were a team until it was brought to my attention on Saturday. Frankly, I could care less if the Bears or the Vikings win Monday night's football game.
But it doesn't end with the endless headline recaps or various pieces of trivia. The boys have countless brackets and score cards written on crumpled paper lying all over the house. I am doing at least a load of laundry a day to keep their multiple uniform changes for every hour clean. We have miniature helmets set up in a bracket on the dining room table, and Keagan constanly raids my make up bag for black eyeliner so that he can draw blackout stickers under his eyes.
This morning I was awakened at the terrible hour of 7:58 with, "Mom, can we go outside to play football?" When I said no, Evan took it in stride and then went to the living room and turned on Sports Center in a volume level reserved for nursing homes. The same headlines heard on TV will no doubt be repeated within the day, in between uniform changes and drinks of water, because it will be assumed I was able to sleep through all that noise and didn't catch it the first time around.
Oh, who am I kidding? I do find it all a bit endearing. Otherwise, I wouldn't have this awaiting the boys on Christmas morning.
But it doesn't end with the endless headline recaps or various pieces of trivia. The boys have countless brackets and score cards written on crumpled paper lying all over the house. I am doing at least a load of laundry a day to keep their multiple uniform changes for every hour clean. We have miniature helmets set up in a bracket on the dining room table, and Keagan constanly raids my make up bag for black eyeliner so that he can draw blackout stickers under his eyes.
This morning I was awakened at the terrible hour of 7:58 with, "Mom, can we go outside to play football?" When I said no, Evan took it in stride and then went to the living room and turned on Sports Center in a volume level reserved for nursing homes. The same headlines heard on TV will no doubt be repeated within the day, in between uniform changes and drinks of water, because it will be assumed I was able to sleep through all that noise and didn't catch it the first time around.
Oh, who am I kidding? I do find it all a bit endearing. Otherwise, I wouldn't have this awaiting the boys on Christmas morning.
With blackout stickers included, my eyeliner will now remain in its rightful place: my make up bag.
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