The rules of engagement

It’s playoff time in the NFL–  the world is ablaze with testosterone and beer advertising.  As a long-time football fan, I’m following the highlights.  I know a few of the teams-  Steelers-  my son’s favourite team, Falcons – cuz my best pal lives in Georgia.  I know the names of a few of the players-  the high profile ones- the ones with the off the field reputations included.  And I know enough to follow the local guy made good.  One Israel Odoniji in particular  who played for the same university team my son plays for now, the Manitoba Bisons.

What I haven’t got a handle on are the rules of engagement.

When I can hoot, comment, groan, moan, philosophize, rhapsodize and when I need to keep quiet.  But that’s not the worst.  Just recently I thought I was doing my son a favour by recapping some of the highlights he’d missed.  Turns out, he didn’t want to know.  Sigh.  What’s a mother to do??

Today, just before my son pressed record for the Steelers’ game he stopped and said:  I really need to record this game and I don’t want to know the score and I don’t want to know anything about it until I watch it.


I watched the game.  While online surfing, dusting and mopping the hardwood floors…  I checked out the weather, and emailed by Georgia Peach Pal… after all, I am a woman, and a mom.  I saw most of the big plays…enough of them to laugh, cry, hold my head, shake my fist, weep, wail, and moan…you know, like a real football fan. It was a good game.

So the challenge will be not to say anything when my son comes home.  Not to let anything slip.  I’m a woman;  I like to share, chat and engage my son when he comes home.  But I’m learning.  I may have to go to bed or to another room before my son comes home, so as not to let the cat out of the bag so to speak.  Luckily, all the multi-tasking today has left me a little sleepy.  Night all.


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