Please, Just One Game?

With an "umph" she sits down on the footstool in front of my chair.  Technically, it's called a leather chestnut ottoman of the Higgins collection, hand stitched.  All of the family has different names for it.  That's my wife's name for it.  My son's name for it is "the brown thingy that I launch myself onto your crotch".  My daughters name for it is "Where I want to play Barbies all the time." 

My name for it is "Why don't I move this thing?"

Regardless of it's name, it gets alot of play in our house and today it is supporting the aching back of my 9 month pregnant wife and my two minions who happen to be playing a "story" on it.  Imagination is a wonderful thing, especially when it takes place next to a grumpy pregnant wife and infront of a father who really just wants to watch the NFC Championship game. 

Hossmom looks at me and there is a frown on her face.  I am hoping this frown is because she has just realized that she is sitting in front of my game.  For some insane reason, I am trying to watch this live rather than to just want until they all go to bed.  Even the best of us make mistakes from time to time.

Sadly, the look on her face is not because she has realized her mistake of T.V. blocking.  This, in fact, has never crossed her mind in the 20 years that I have known her.  I've learned to accept it at this point, it's like a boulder, it's there and you just have to make due.

Now is when I realize that I have compared my very pregnant wife to a boulder and that I will probably be hit in the face tomorrow.  

I'm waiting for the conversation that comes from this look.  This usually means that we need to talk for about an hour and get to the point where I totally lose the thread of what we were talking about.  Eventually I will just nod my head and hope that I'm doing it at the right times.

But the conversation doesn't come this time.  A more astute husband may have noticed this before 5 minutes have passed.  However, I am now covering my balls from my leaping son.  You've always have to be on the look out for that guy.

Eventually I do ask my wife what is going on.  She says that she is tired.  Tired, that I can deal with.  I can do tired all day.  I've got tired wrapped up in my stock answer pile.  In fact, me and tired go way back, way way back. Tired I can handle and if I handle it quickly, perhaps I can go back to watching my game.  Although that hope starts to fade once my son decides that my bald head is the perfect place to play hot wheels.   I can't blame him though, it is a pretty magnificent melon.

So let's deal with tired.  I tell her to go take a nap.  I apologize for knocking her up.  I suggest that she go get a pedicure while getting a hymn sung to her.  Whatever it takes because it appears that someone is making a drive and they are on the 20 yard line.   The quicker she takes one of my suggestions the sooner I can get back to my game, a game that I really want to watch.  Sadly, old Hossman has had to give up some football watching time to get ready for a new baby and to parent two already delivered kids, one of which is making vroom vroom noises near my ear.

I try to lean my head to see past my wife, but it isn't working.  Because now my son thinks it's time to do headbuts.  Hey, I love a good headbut and I feel that it is a good way to bond with my son.  However just not at this particular time.

I try to pause the game, thank god for Tivo.  This is what I would normally do.  Then I would wait until 10 o'clock and everyone is asleep.  I would then get two uninterupted hours of good football watching time without noise or the Indy 500 being run behind my ears.

The pause button won't currently work and that is a shame because I"m pretty sure someone just ran in a touchdown.  My daugther is playing with her new photo fashion Barbie.  She likes playing on the entertainment center because the TV provides a good runway backdrop to her twirls.  And as luck would have it, photo fashion Barbie and my daughter do their best work right infront of my DVR reciever.  I think the extra point is good but I can't be totally sure.  Did I tell you that Photo Fashion Barbie and my daughter like to sing?  No particular song, just what they are doing at that moment.  The lyrics of their latest single "What I'm doing right now" are quiet good.  It's followed up with the chorus of "Let's go potty."

Hossmom hasn't taken the hint of my craning neck to move just yet either.  She hasn't noticed it and why should she?  Her mind has been preoccupied with the scenario of "What if my water breaks at work".  It's a legit concern.  I've seen water breaking, it's not a pretty sight.  And for those that say childbirth is beautiful, I would like to kindly disagree by asking what the fuck is wrong with you?  There is just something about seeing your wife's placenta being handled like a soccer ball that is not very appealing.  The beauty part is just that little inspection of placenta tissue is going to cost me a good 2 grand in doctors fees.  We'll call it "consultation of amniotic whatchamajig." 

It appears that the sports casters are saying what a good game it was, the keyword here being "was".  The game is over and it also appears that the car race on my head is over.  The finish was close but I believe the miraculous jump over my nose won it for the blue car. 

Soon after, Little Hoss let's me know that my new football game is starting, the AFC Championship.  Am I going to watch this one?

Nope.  I'll watch it at 10.  Besides, I do believe that Photo Fashion Barbie needs a limo and I happen to know a very reliable blue car that could fit her needs, driver included.  We'll get to it right after I put their mother down for a nap. 

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