Here you'll find current musings, as well as the archives from two blogs of yesteryear: YoungMarriedMom and What I Learned While Writing a Novel. Please comment and share. We love well when we are in conversation with one another.
When I was pregnant, there were a couple of moments of prayer that just about convinced me that we had a little baby boy brewing. When finally our doctor, with a pair of tiny, slightly purpled feet in hand, confirmed that our child was, indeed, male, I was delighted that this feeling I’d had all along, this connection I’d suspected was already in the works, was as real as I’d hoped it had been.
But if those moments of prayer hadn’t been enough to convince me, there was also the fact that, in the last months of my pregnancy, I become borderline obsessed with professional football.
Four years at Boston College will make anyone a football fan, but when we moved to New York and elected not to get cable, and thus ESPN, our Saturdays with the Eagles quickly came to an end.
While in undergrad, professional football didn’t appeal to me much. I didn’t have anyone nearby with which to share a loyalty. Even then, I knew being a Patriots fan was unacceptable. Once John and I were married, I struggled to hang on to what is most of my family’s allegiance to the Giants. By the end of the season, I suspected I had been defeated. I’d cheered for more Jets games than Giants games, thanks to John, and as the 2010 season approached, I could feel my loyalty most certainly shifting.
Having a little testosterone-infused person live in me for nine months—and with a heck of a pair of shoulders to boot—was the final straw. Now that we’re in this season’s playoffs, it’s time for me to come clean. I am, indeed, a Jets fan.
I pay attention to the schedule. I know names and numbers. I have a fan-crush on Mark Sanchez. I don’t have any gear myself (that stuff is pricey!) but I dress our son in Jets-wear so consistently on Sundays that friends at church have questioned whether he has anything else to wear. Aren’t you supposed to wear your best clothes to church?
Most mothers fear their sons playing football, but I am looking forward to peewee leagues and whatever comes after, should he be interested. His girth has already inspired us to joke about his becoming a linebacker (and it’s not really a joke).
I love sharing this exciting football season with the little guy—and my big guy, John. Part of what I appreciate about football is the consistent schedule. There’s just enough to anticipate, just enough to commit to following. Knowing we’re going to spend a couple of hours together on Sunday, watching something we all love, has been a great thing to look forward to every week.
Because we’re in the postseason now—although it’s definitely not over yet!—I’m already looking forward to next season, when I’ll call out, “J-E-T-S!” and Jacob will (hopefully) answer back, “JETS! JETS! JETS!” We’re working on a fist pump, too.
This is the kind of tradition an American family is all about, and I couldn’t be happier to share it with mine.