Wednesday, February 5, 2014

Zoe vs. the Super Bowl

Zoe went on her first play date on Saturday (shout-out to the lovely and talented Urban Moo Cow) and was so well-behaved I thought I was going to have to hang up this blog's shingle. Now I see she was trying to lull me into a false sense of security, saving herself for 6:30 p.m. the next day, aka, Super Bowl kickoff time.

Buster's acting gigs were not what they used to
be, but it was better than making the cry-face for
Sarah McLachlan. Buster had some dignity left.

There was a build-up. It started more than twelve hours earlier, aka, when she woke up. And it soon became one of those days when she ran me so ragged all I wanted to do was sit but knew if I did it would only lead to more exhaustion. At least if I kept on the move I might be safe. Once I sat, she'd want to sit on my lap, which in practice meant anything but.
Zoe is constitutionally incapable of staying still (once she's fully welcomed the day, that is). Sitting on me becomes standing, becomes jumping, becomes shimmying up my back and then wrapping herself around my middle sideways like the world's most snot-ridden belt.
But I tolerated all this with the hope that she'd be so tired by kickoff she'd go to bed soon after and then the Husband and I could enjoy the Super Bowl in peace. What's the saying? Mommy plans. Toddler laughs. And then poops on you.

The foul was for egregious murder.
Zoe ought to be a fan of football considering that unnecessary roughness is her way of life, committing more lifetime personal fouls than Bill Romanowski. (Thanks to the Husband for the sports info assist! Wait, what? Now the Husband is signalling that "assist" is for a different sport. Whatevs!)
Back to my own little linebacker.
At kickoff, in protest of the fact that her parents had the nerve to use her TV for something other than Peppa Pig while she ate dinner, she squirmed in her booster seat until she'd turned it around so that she had her back to the TV, and was then able to stare at us balefully.
I had made chicken fingers. Usually she insists on eating chicken fingers with her actual fingers, I assume on moral grounds. Not that night. That night she wanted me to cut them up.
I cut them up and even slathered on mayonnaise, a special treat. She wanted more mayo.
I didn't cut it small enough.
I cut it smaller while missing the first embarrassing play of the game, one of many.
In the meantime I made a backup side dish of guacamole in case she rejected the chicken. She loves her some guac and chips.
Several trips back and forth to kitchen later, catering to her every whim (juice, not that cup, a different fork, a spoon) just to keep her happy and get to football, I finally sat to eat my own meal and saw that she hadn't touched her food. And she was still staring at me with a tragic look she could only have picked up from a Sarah McLachlan animal cruelty ad.

The Grammy-winning singer threatens to garrote
Mr. Jingles if you don't adopt him.

"Eat your dinner, sweetie," I said.
"I don't want it," she whined.
"I also made guacamole. You like guacamole." 
"I don't want guacamole," she whined louder. "I want out!"
"I'm sorry but you have to wait until I'm finished eating now."
All that accomplished was that after each bite she asked me if I was done yet.
So instead of the Super Bowl it was the Whine Bowl. Years before (three and a half, but who's counting) I would've been able to delete the "h," but that was not to be. 
When we finally pulled the tray off her booster seat so she could get out, she said her throat hurt, which meant she wanted one of the toddler medicinal lollipops I'd given her when she was sick a while ago. P.S. Her throat's been sore ever since.
I gave her one. Could I now join with the rest of America in seeing the funny commercials broken up by a football game?
After about three licks she said, "My tummy hurts."
Did somebody say, "Bathtime!"? Yep, I did. 
At this point she can take a bath unsupervised, in terms of her own safety, though not in terms of the bathroom floor's, but I figured the floor could fend for itself. After her bath, we paused the game to get her in her pajamas and then I read to her. She stretched out the clock, as usual, much like the Broncos would've done if there'd been any point.
Getting her into bed involved more penalties on both sides. Illegal contact, Zoe. Defensive holding, me. General unsportsmanlike conduct all around. But finally she drifted off, twirling her hair and informing me, "I like football."

Referee signals that viewers should stop looking.

In the end I felt like Peyton Manning, except without the winning record to fall back on. And at least he got to wear padding to absorb the blows.

Terrific. Today wasn't bad enough and now
McLachlan's abused puppies are on the Jumbotron.

Zoe: 30; Universe: 0; Broncos: 8 (RealFeel: 0)


  1. Stop, I was laughing so hard when I read this. I have to say I was rather skeptical of your characterization after meeting your very sweet Zoe. I guess she keeps it under wraps. My family used to call that the "for-show baby" when my colicky niece would only smile for guests.

    I laughed so hard at the photo captions that people on the BK bus were looking at me sideways. ;-)

    1. Haha. Thanks. I really think she was being good on purpose. I underestimate her genius at my peril.

  2. Oh, my GOSH!! This line had me almost laughing Diet Coke out of my nose "Zoe ought to be a fan of football considering that unnecessary roughness is her way of life" Bwahahahaha. --Lisa Ps. I think you did MUCH better than Peyton Manning! :D