What’s the Point of Football & Other Signs She’s Really Mine

There are moments when you look at your child and wonder if the nurses did one of those switcharoos in the hospital. No matter that people take one look at her and say “Now THAT is an Eschenberg [my maiden name] child.” There are things that come out of this kid’s mouth that inject a certain amount of uncertainty.

“I love bacon,” for one.

Or “I do not think The Princess Bride is the best movie ever made.” I’m still licking my wounds from that one.

And then there are the moments when your child completely redeems herself, when you know for sure that your blood does indeed course through her veins.

It happened Sunday. The New York Giants were playing the New Orleans Saints on television while her father and I prepped dinner. She was lying on the couch cuddling with her stuffed bunny, still in recovery mode from a rather wicked cough.

I heard a little voice from the living room. “What’s the purpose of football?”

Her father was confused. How could someone ask such a silly question, he wondered. The purpose of football is well, everything, to a man raised in the South, fed heaping helpings of Virginia Tech is the meaning of life since birth.

I, on the other hand, giggled. I may or may not have done a little dance, a la Snoopy as I folded the cheese into the cream sauce for our macaroni and cheese.

Finally! A sign that she is mine!

Her flabbergasted father tried to recover. “What do you mean?” he asked. “The purpose is to score more touchdowns than the other team.”

“Well,” she asked. “But what’s the point?”

The dancing got faster and more furious in the kitchen. The father began scratching at his face, his brow furrowed.

“It’s like soccer,” he said, trying to bring up the sport she understands, the sport she loves. “You try to score more goals than the other team in soccer. You try to score more touchdowns in football.”

This she could accept, but she was unconvinced. Lying there, all cuddled up with her stuffed pink bunny, she stared at the TV in silence. I could see her little mind wheeling around, wondering, “If I concentrate hard enough, will this suddenly make sense? Or at least magically turn into cartoons?”

Sorry Kid, I’ve got a few decades on you, and I’ve learned there is no making sense of this one. But it’s nice to know you’re not alone, huh?

Have you “liked” Inside Out Motherhood on Facebook yet?  

Image via Anderson Mancini/Flickr

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