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Mommy's Super Bowl

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The following is a hypothetical conversation with my son. Not a real one.

woman watching awards shows

Momlogic's Vivian: Nachos? Check. Bottle of vino? Check. Pants that expand to allow the consumption of copious amounts of both? Check. Snarky 'tude? Oh, it's on. Undisputed mastery of the remote? HELL yes.

What's that, sweet child of mine? Why am I on the couch? You want me to move over so you can watch "Pokémon Diamond and Pearl"?

As your loving mother, with no additional help, save for the occasional date night, mind you, my after-work days and nights are consumed with acting as your short-order cook, chauffeur, event-planner, tutor, diaper-changer, amateur, non-accredited triage pediatrician, and referee, and I'm sure there are many additional duties I'm forgetting right now.

And don't get me wrong. As your proud mommy, I'm honored to do all the above and then some to care for you and make you happy.

But I'd like to think that for a few nights per year, it's fully within my legal rights to hog the TV and descend into an amusing rabbit hole where I'm privy to the latest happenings in fashion, gossip, and entertainment. See, the Golden Globes, the Emmys, and the Academy Awards are each like my Super Bowl.

Why do people love the Super Bowl? Aside from being an unofficial American holiday where it's customary to drink a whole lot of beer and consume illegal quantities of buffalo wings, I think the Super Bowl resonates so deeply with folks because somewhere, deep within the psyche of every football fan, lies a quarterback who never got picked for the team. Or a running back who never scored a touchdown, or screwed a hot cheerleader in uniform. Maybe they got to do these things in high school or college, but not recently, because their lives went a different way.

So we worship the Super Bowl like some attend temple or church, to live vicariously through the triumphs and shortcomings of our appointed heroes and become one with their glory by absorbing just a nanosecond of their applause for ourselves.

See, somewhere deep in your mommy's psyche is a brilliant screenwriter who will pen the next "Juno" or "Up in the Air." All while possessing the legs of Jennifer Aniston, cleavage of Halle Berry, and chops of Toni Collette, dressed in the same faboosh manner as Kate Hudson and bathed in audible kudos for my bitchin' style by Jay Manuel. I just haven't gotten around to it yet because I've worked out an exclusive deal to endorse Old Navy couture while changing your sister's diapers. And making your dinner. And playing chauffeur. You feel the wind.

So, let me have the remote, will ya, kid? It's the least you could do. And while you're at it, be a dear and remind Christian Louboutin that I'm still waiting for those free platform pumps to wear to pickup.

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