There’s a lot of things I wonder about. Like does anybody else think Rick Springfield’s Souls and Bob Seger’s Hollywood Nights are essentially the same song? Would the Super Steelers had been able to grab that fifth Super Bowl win had Bradshaw just tucked it and ran for the first down instead of throwing that game changing pick against San Diego in the ’82 playoffs? And what is the success rate for Dads to avoid getting sick when 66% of your kids throw up over a three day period?
Rye produced a gale force burp Friday night. Good news was that she was smart and agile enough to grab an empty garbage can. Bad news is that after she threw up she thought it would be a good idea to get in my bed and lay down on my pillows.
So not only did I have to sleep in puke fumes, I had to empty the aforementioned garbage can. You know how when you empty one container of liquid into a bigger container of liquid there is a splash? I miscalculated the height the splash could attain.
Despite my best attempts at decontamination, I woke up Sunday morning and felt like there was something amiss in my stomach. You know that feeling. You don’t feel sick but you know something isn’t right. Like Tom Cruise in Valkyrie.
Those fears were confirmed about 1 p.m. Which meant I became the first American to watch all of ESPN’s and the NFL Network’s Super Bowl pre-game coverage. I was only half awake for portions of it but that stuff is awful. Horrible. Criminally horrible. Adam Sandler is a funny guy. But that doesn’t mean I want him breaking down the game.
Anyway, the whole weekend wasn’t lost. In fact, I realized something that I had been missing so far as a Dad. Watching the girls in dance and gymnastics is great. Listening to Rye at her orchestra concert is cool. I’ll get a pic up soon. It was my first orchestra concert ever!
But I don’t have any frame of reference with this stuff. If they blow a step or a move, I don’t really notice. When Rye was in The Nutcracker a couple years ago she came out afterwards and wanted to know if I saw her mess up. I didn’t. At all. I had the same reaction Mom did when Austin Collie turned the wrong way on that wide receiver screen Sunday night just before Peyton Manning threw the pick six.
“Something went wrong? Really?”
But Kinsey made three baskets in a row Saturday morning. Three. Even used the backboard on one. My sixth grade coach would have been beaming. Then they took turns defending each other off the dribble. She was like Joe Dumars out there. The only person having more fun than me was the kid in the camp who, for whatever reason, thought flying karate kicks everytime he turned a corner were a useful addition to basketball. Or the maybe the kid who did the double fist pump pistol shot at all the parents after he made a basket.
Already looking forward to next Saturday. Maybe one of the kids will add the moonwalk…