Superbowl XXXI (1997): My 7 college roommates and 8 other friends threw an all girl Superbowl party – football fans need not attend.
We spent the night rotating through ‘Would you rather?’ variations involving the quarterbacks Tom Brady and Brett Favre (pre-junk texting scandal this was a win-win proposition, no matter how gross the details got). The only time we stopped dancing to the Spice Girls’ ‘Wannabe’ was to check out the commercials.
Superbowl XLVI (last night): Was the Superbowl last night? Oh.
Ok, I knew it was happening but frankly I was too exhausted to watch. We spent this weekend trapped inside our
tiny cozy apartment as both kids attempted to raise their internal temperature to something closer to the surface of the sun (spoiler alert: Chloe won with a high of 104.1).
Like the Clint Eastwood movie, we experienced the good, bad and the ugly.
I know it’s wrong, but I
enjoy don’t hate it when my kids are sick (so long as there is no vomit involved). Here’s 3 reasons why:
- They are super cuddly. Even when I can’t make it all better, they still want constant hugs and cuddles from mommy. And I am only thrilled to oblige all the while knowing there will be a time when they won’t fit in my lap and they will wipe my kisses off their face in disgust.
- Sleep. I am sure it’s part of my karma, but my kids don’t sleep. Chloe is far more reasonable than her brother ever was but in Dr. Weissbluth’s spectrum of acceptable amounts of sleep she is still on the low side (Gavin just makes a mockery of it).
Except when they are sick. There were naps, bedtimes without a peep of protest, and 12 hour stretches. I know it’s wrong to rejoice but I did.
- Low energy. I know its wrong to be happy about this too, but when they are sick these typically high maintenance,
wiredactive kids take a break. We watch a lot of TV (the HBO Classical Baby series to soothe the nerves) and read lots of books while cuddling on the couch.
- The TV. Once Classical Baby is over I am subjected to the same episodes of Team Umizoomi over and over until I quite literally begin to crazy shake.
- Whining. Oh the whining. I’m too hot. My juice is too cold. Pick me up. Hug me closer. It never ends.
- The pain. Seeing my babies in pain, even if that pain is really only discomfort, is heart wrenching to me. They look to me to make them feel better with every hug. It is in your sick child’s eyes that you see the power and responsibility of being a mommy.
- Green snot. Everywhere. On shirt sleeves, pillowcases, my hands…oh yes and occasionally on a tissue. Why do children hate having their noses wiped so much? If I had cement quality green stuff hanging from my nose I would never dodge the person attempting to help. Chloe is quick. She ducks and leans all Neo-like. And she’s never even seen the Matrix. Gavin stands there and succumbs, but man does he cry and whine.
- Diarrhea. Or as my son calls it “poopy juice”. Yeah, I just wrote that.
The kids have a draw as to who is worse to deal with. Gavin refuses to let me leave the room while he is on the potty. The whole time. A typical male, he could read Vanity Fair from cover to cover during a normal session. It’s amazing I didn’t pass out from sustained exposure to the fumes.
Chloe usually goes off somewhere to be alone while she does her business, but then I am subjected to a UFC match to change her diaper.
And where does that smell come from???
- Did I mention the smells? It’s worth another mention.
Superbowl XXXI Carinn and Superbowl XLVI Carinn might not agree on how to spend the night, but they do agree on one thing. NO ONE WANTS TO HEAR VOGUE ANYMORE. Ever. Again. Thanks Madonna.