Football, Already?

My life has been circumscribed, these last few days.  Flapjilly sleeps and eats and distracts me from almost every other endeavor.  I've read a short novel and crocheted three rows of an afghan but mostly I've stared at an extremely small human who doesn't do very much at all.

It's infinitely fascinating.

The television has been on.  Big Bang Theory and all the DIY weekend shows are the perfect background.  They require no concentration, and can be tuned into with one ear while the other listens to a gently breathing granddaughter.

Have I mentioned that this is a delightful way to spend a day ... or two ... or five?

TBG arrived this afternoon.  The Android maps app sent me to the cargo loading area of O'Hare International Airport.  I mention that it is an international airport because once I extricated myself from the round-and-round-the-mulberry-bush directions I was aimed toward that terminal ... and there were no signs directing me elsewhere.  I ended up back on the highway, deciding to follow the signs rather than the electronic directions.

That turned out to be a much better idea.

We were supposed to go to Seret's Sip and See once he was in the car. We were invited to drink champagne and meet Flapjilly's future husband, a highly attractive four month old, the offspring of The Bride and The Pharmacist.  But The Bride assured Little Cuter that their family would make the drive to visit Flapjilly and TBG, once he was apprised of the situation, decided that he had waited long enough to lay eyes on his own grandchild.

We drove to the kids' house in record time.  He spent the afternoon and evening with the baby on his chest.  We ordered Chinese food and watched the baby sleep and then TBG realized that it was nearly 7pm.  Diffidently, with many apologies, he asked if he could watch the Hall of Fame Game.

I'm sorry.  I'm just not ready for Fall.  I'm not interested in long afternoons watching men bash into one another.  I don't want to pretend to care.  I don't want to learn new names.  I don't want to remember who defeated whom when.  Fantasy football will occupy half of our phone conversations with Big Cuter.

I'd much rather obsess about my granddaughter.  Can you blame me?