"Ugh, puh leeze mommy, THE GAME is on."
My son watches football.
Let me explain the moment.
It's Thanksgiving Thursday. I come upstairs to find my dad, my husband and my son (in his bouncer) all watching a game. Like, he's WATCHING it. Engaged with the game. How the heck does a 4-month-old baby know to like football?? Which game, perhaps you're wondering? Gosh that is so unimportant to the story. I leaned down to my sweet son, whom I hadn't seen for the past 30 minutes, to give him some love and pet him and baby talk (I hate baby talk, but you literally cannot stop once it starts coming out of your mouth.) As I leaned down in front of him, to deliver my coveted love, I blocked his view of the game and he shrieked at me. Then started crying. THEN. He attempted peek around me, wriggling his body in his little baby bouncer seat in the greatest attempt ever TO SEE THE SCREEN. I gasped. My dad and Stevie's mouths dropped open, aghast (and let's be honest - SO PROUD) of what they had just witnessed. My baby son. Watching football. Didn't want to miss a moment of the action. Didn't want mommy's kisses. Didn't need mommy's love.
Can you feel me shriveling up inside. Because I've barely processed his birth, can hardly see straight from the insanity of sleep deprivation, and already he is separating himself, siding with THOSE MEN and leaving mommy's mushy affections in the wake. Of the football field. On the television screen. It is the infant equivalent of, (in a deep, dude-ish voice), "Woman, GET OUT of my way when the game is on."
So that happened. And that's how I am remembering this Thanksgiving.