Sunday has a new rhythm. And just in time.

I am over how busy the summer was. Finally, the weather is cooler. I am pregnant with a capital “P” and want nothing more than to put my feet up for a few hours, eat food I can’t otherwise justify, and watch my team run, throw, and tackle their way to victory.

Oh, football. I missed you.

John’s German grandfather, I’m told, had a theory about American football: namely that it is ridiculous. “They get up, run a little, fall down, get up, have a huddle, and do it all over again!”

Jacob’s commentary yesterday was strikingly similar. But without what I imagine to have been a considerable German accent (we’re working on it).

“Fall down! Stand up! Run, run, run! Fall down! Stand up!”

The very best part, though, was when he called out something that sounded very much like “Tebow!”

I’m a Sanchez fan myself, not because I find him attractive, but because I believe in him. Henry, it seems, is on my side of things. (Note to self: do not play favorites.)

For us, football season is a time to keep in closer communication with certain family members, see friends, dress Jacob up in loyalty-inducing paraphernalia, and eat my becoming-more-famous-every-year pulled pork. It is a time that warms up our home, even when the air outside is cooling down.

Though the Jets are seasoned heartbreakers, at this point, no one knows what the season holds. After a distressing preseason, our boys started it off with a W. It was just what I needed to start the week.

That and the fact that there are still a few pigs in a blanket left in the fridge . . .