It’s October. It’s football season. It’s week 8. And if we’re lucky, we have 8 more to go.
It’s October. And I really want to go the distance. I do.
But it’s October. And I also feel defeated. I feel beat up. I feel like I’m at the bottom of a dogpile, and I didn’t even recover the fumble. Because it’s not really a dog pile. It’s a laundry pile. And I’m buried under dirty socks and underwear.
It’s October. It’s week 8. With no more home games the rest of the month. And the away games are WAAAAAYYYY away. Like two hours away, one way.
It’s October. And Halloween’s looming on the horizon. Like a fair catch about to go horribly wrong. Because what should be relatively safe and easy child’s play will escalate to a muffed punt. Cause it’s on a weeknight. Again. And I’ve got to tackle trick-or-treat duty on my own. Again. (At least it’s not Friday night. I don’t even want to think about Halloween on a Friday night. I’ve got two years to worry about that one…)
It’s October. And we’re deep into season, but the weather hasn’t gotten the game plan. So every Friday night I spend hours in sweltering heat and humidity wearing twin boys like shoulder pads, with hair plastered to my head like a freakishly wet AND frizzy helmet — and looking a hot mess. A Literal. Hot. Mess.
It’s October. It’s football season. It’s week 8. It’s 90 degrees. I’m pretty sure some penalty flags are in order…
Oh, how I’d love to throw them!
Fragrant foul: Laundry. Unnecessary roughness, nose guard. Offensive violation, tail back. Off-setting penalties.
Illegal motion: Away Games. 60-mile penalty.
Horse collar: twin toddlers. Fifteen-minute time out.
Personal foul: Halloween. Unsportsmanlike conduct. Fifteen Reese’s cups from the time of pillage.
Holding penalty: October. Illegal grasp on summer. 25-degree penalty. Automatic cool down.
Yes, I would love to throw a whole slew of yellow flags — to blow the whistle and punish the offenders. All the offenders. And there are so many. And it would be so completely and utterly satisfying…
… and so completely and utterly futile.
Because the hits will just keep coming and the clock will just keep running, and the only control I have is over my effort and my attitude.
It’s only October. So I’ll tackle the laundry (one offensive series at a time), and I’ll drop kick the drive time (and stay home with sports radio), and I’ll hand off the toddlers (to grandma for sleepovers), and I’ll pray for a weather turnover (that can’t come soon enough).
And I’ll grind on through the next eight weeks, Good Lord willing.