The Murphy's Law of Parenting

The Man-Cub's football game this evening was in a town a couple of hours away. Hugh and I decided not to make the trip since that seemed like a pretty long drive to make since the Cub doesn't generally get to play (not that I am complaining about that; he loves the fact that he gets to wear the uniform and it's enough for him just to be able to support his team).

Instead, we went out to dinner and did a little shopping at the Hellmouth.

On our way home, we turned the radio station to the game and listened to the final eleven minutes, which was just enough time to catch the Cub's name and to realize that, holy shit, he was in the game.

Son of a bitch.

Ain't that the way it always goes?

Anyway, the team won the game 34-6, the Cub and the rest of the second string got to play in their first varsity game, and we are the worst parents in the history of parenting.

But I am oh, so happy for my boy, and, if this was Twitter and not my blog, I would be hastagging all over the fucking place.

#PROUDMAMA, #SORRYWEMISSEDIT, #PIRATESRULE!, #THEMAN-CUBROCKS!, #MYBOYISFAMOUS

Aren't you glad I could spare you from that?

 

 

Yeah, I play varsity, ain't no big thang

I'm proud of the Cub. I'm proud of all of the boys, of course, but, especially of my Fearsome Foursome; this game is just the beginning of their varsity football careers and I know that we are going to love watching them play for the next few years.

But, no matter how many opportunities they have to tear it up on the football field, and, no matter how big and tough they get while they are doing it, this is how I will always picture them...

Watch out, girls, we're coming for you