January 22, 2008

And Then Depression Set In

Two days after the Packers’ heartbreaking loss to the New York Giants, 23-20 in overtime of the NFC Championship game, and Green Bay’s fans and players are still not able to let go of the loss.

I’m still sad about it.  My first thought after waking up this morning, “…and then depression set in.”

I know it’s only a game, but it was important an important game.  It meant so much to the team, to the fans, to the coaches, to Brett Favre.

I can’t believe the season is really over.  The Super Bowl seems as though it will never arrive.  I keep thinking I’ll wake up from this bad dream and Brett Favre will lead the Packers to another victory over the New England Patriots.

Ah, but this is not the case.  Instead, Eli Manning and his Giants have a gigantic mountain called New England to climb.

Now…all I can think about is next season and whether or not Brett Favre will return to our team this fall.  My instincts tell me he will retire and my heart breaks at the thought.

This is what it means to be a true GBP fan I suppose.

Even though our team finished 13-3 overall, and the Packers have achieved so much season, it doesn’t make it any less painful to know that it’s all over this year.

Sigh.   I may need a little more grieving time.

January 21, 2008

Tomorrow

Tomorrow, WhyMommy is having surgery.

Please keep her in your prayers and in your thoughts.

I’m so thankful to her for encouraging me to have a mammogram/breast exam before age 30. So many doctors had told me that the risk is for women over 40, but this is so not the case. It’s important for us, as women, to take charge of our health care no matter what our doctors suggest.

If you haven’t had a mammogram, please consider doing it. WhyMommy didn’t have a lump, yet she still has breast cancer. And she is going to kick cancer’s ass.

God be with you, WhyMommy. We are all thinking of you!

Boy, Oh Boy

When I found out I was pregnant four years ago, the first thing I said to my doctor was, “So…when do I get an ultrasound?”

I wanted to know exactly what was growing inside my belly. If a tiny human was going to be housed inside me for nine months, stretching my stomach into what looked like a busy city road map, I demanded to know so I could name him (or her) appropriately. Instead I called the baby “the little alien”.

“Listen, you little alien, if you’re going to kick me in the ribs, you could do it before I’ve eaten. Holy hell, that hurts!”

But the stubborn baby taking over my uterus (and bladder, and every other body organ that was shoved out of the way) refused to uncross it’s legs when the time came to have cold jelly rubbed on my belly.

I loved watching fetal acrobatics in utero, and getting those first ultrasound images made everything seem more real, but my baby decided to be modest and keep those little legs crossed.

“It’s a girl…” my husband chuckled. “And damn right she better keep her legs closed. She has no idea how scary this whole pregnancy thing is.”

“Uh huh,” I said sarcastically. “Because you know soooo much about morning sickness, heartburn and carrying extra pounds in your hips, thighs, ass and stomach.”

During the next few months, my family and friends suggested several “magic formulas” for determining the baby’s gender.

“Poor Clorox in the toilet bowl, go pee and if the water turns yellow it’s a boy. If it it turns green it’s a girl.” My aunt joked.

“Okay, so isn’t pee naturally kind of yellow? And if it turns green, doesn’t that mean I’ve celebrated St. Patrick’s Day four months too late?” I asked.

“No, no, no!” my mom said. “You can’t put bleach and urine in the toilet together, it’ll blow your tushie right off! Don’t you girls read Good Housekeeping?”

When I was 8 months pregnant I was diagnosed with pre-eclampsia and my doctor recommended another ultrasound to make sure the baby looked good should I go into pre-term labor.

As the technician was taking measurements, pushing and prodding my belly to get the baby to move around, she pointed to a body part and said, “He looks very good. Very healthy.”

“Wait. What?” I shrieked. “It’s….it’s…a BOY?”

I started to cry. Not because I was sad, but because I finally knew that a boy was the one kicking me for hours while I tried to sleep. I always wanted a boy, and I couldn’t wait to call my husband and tell him the news.

“It’s a boy! A boy! We are having a boy!” I yelled into the phone.

“Holy shit. For real? You wouldn’t lie to a dad-to-be, would you?” He asked.

“Who said you’re the father?” I joked.

Three weeks later, Dawson was born, and I realized I knew nothing about baby boys. I have two younger brothers and I knew that boys like sports and race cars, but I hadn’t the first clue about boy parts.

I had changed my youngest brother’s diapers when he was a baby, but he had never peed on me. The first diaper I changed for Dawson, he peed all over my night gown. I swear he was trying to prove his boyhood.

And nobody ever told me that boys are wild. They yell and scream and run and jump and demand food and cookies and apple juice. Eveything! Must! Be! LOUD! And! Rough! Now that Dawson is three years old, I’ve become a human jungle gym.

“Hey, Murphy! Let’s jump on mommy’s legs for fun!”

No, seriously. I do believe that my son conspires with the dog to beat the crap out of me. The tugging and pulling and the “Mommy! Let’s play football. I get to be da tackle and you get to be hurt! It’s a lot of fun! I prooooomise.”

Just yesterday I bruised my collar bone because Dawson ran full force and rammed his head into me, all the while screaming, “Nine, seven, three, six, two…HUUUUTTTTT!”

But, to be fair, no one told me how much little boys love their mamas, either. All the tackling is worth it. I proooomise.

Congratulations, Julie! Your precious baby boy will be here soon. Take cover. A raincoat will save many mommy outfits. While you’re at it, stock up on football pads, too. The tackling will begin before you know it.

January 20, 2008

The Giants Earned It

I’m in a state of shock over the Giants winning, 23-20 over my Green Bay Packers. It’s a blow to the ego, but I have to say that NY earned the title. If only the Packers got their heads out of their asses and stopped fucking up with penalties, we may have done better.

My dear sweet bloggy pal Liz isn’t rubbing it in my face (yet?), and for this reason, I will proudly support the New York Giants over the Yucky Patriots. I don’t know what y’all see in Tom Brady. He’s not that cute, you know. Neither is Manning, but still. Tom Brady? Are you kidding me? (Okay, now I sound like that Coors commercial.)

I just have one piece of advice for Eli: When things don’t go your way in a game, please don’t yell “Fuck!”  We can read lips and it just makes you look stupid.

That’s all I have to say.

I think I’m going to cry for my team.

Dearest Brett, you did all you could. We know that. But it still hurts.

Congratulations Giants and Giants fans. Good luck in Arizona.