Superbowl Sadness

Sunday, February 1, 2009

Every father’s dream is to sit around the television on Superbowl Sunday, surrounded by his progeny, cheering on the game and hooting at the commercials.

Let’s face it. When your kids are tiny, fathers really don’t know what to do with them. Little ones are just pink hunks of crying, piddling, pooping flesh. Babies are cute, but they just aren’t very interactive.

Somewhere around four or five, though, fathers suddenly jump into action. Their sons are old enough to do stuff. They are going to teach the fruit of their loins to enjoy THEIR favorite activity. The football comes out (substitute bat, tennis racquet, soccer ball, hockey stick, etc., if you are so inclined).

If your family happens to be like mine, the ensuing conversation goes like this:

Father: YOUR kid is completely uncoordinated! He can’t even catch a football!

Mother: Kids aren’t born with magical football catching tendencies. They have to be taught.

Father: I’ve been trying! I spent a whole FIVE MINUTES with him. Sheesh. I’m going to take a shower and watch the game.

If you haven’t figured it out by now, my kids are GEEKS (or nerds. I lose track. One of them, apparently, is an insult, the other a complement. If you have this down, feel free to enlighten me).

Three out of my four would much rather be inside with a book (or inside with a computer) than outside getting sweaty. Exercise? That’s for those dumb kids who can’t figure out how to program or who aren’t knee deep into an eight book fantasy series.

(Stretch actually plays soccer; he’s fairly good at it. I think he’s adopted.)

This would probably all be okay, if dad were a geek, too. But, alas, although hypersmart, he’s a jock. He has played soccer, football, tennis, hockey, racquetball and chess. The bad genes all come from MY side of the family.

So, this Superbowl Sunday, dad might want his progeny to gather ’round the old TV, but it ain’t gonna happen. When queried about their plans, the three remaining children had the following excuses:

The Grouch is going on a raid. He and his band of thugs are going to sneak up on some unsuspecting village while they are all huddled in front of their television sets watching the big game. I’m too into self-preservation to ask how a world that still uses flaming swords and pole-axes as weapons happens to have the technology to watch the Superbowl. Maybe it’s magic.

The Goth is going out with his girlfriend. They figure the malls will be less crowded on Superbowl Sunday. Somebody tell me why it is that the kid who dresses androgynously is the one who gets the girls? He would actually be pretty, if it weren’t for the beard and the chest hair.

Stretch is planning to curl up with the 9th book of Robert Jordan’s “Wheel of Time” series. Not that there’s anything wrong with reading. I wholeheartedly recommend it. But it would be nice if one of my sons bothered to spend a few hours with his dad.

In years past, we have actually managed to get them to watch the game, but only for the cool commercials (Remember the mini-fridge? Our home’s personal favorite. Geeks, remember?). I guess the commercials weren’t so great last year.

My poor husband. Now he only has me to keep him company. Alas, I, too, only watch for the commercials. Thank goodness for replay, or I’d never know what he was talking about.

Luckily, the boys and their father have managed to reach a compromise on the whole sports issue. Dad learned to play Wii tennis, and the boys humor him.

Send this to the person bothering you today!