Dear Kid,

As you may know, yesterday was Football Day.

And (despite my feelings on the matter), New England barely managed not to lose to Jacksonville. (I’ll pause for a moment while you relive the disappointment.)

I am generally amazed by the amount of research the commentators due for each game. I know they have people feeding them information, but they really do a great job of knowing the facts and figures and history and whatnot.

So you’d think they’d learn to pronounce the team name correctly, wouldn’t you?

Not this time.

When you were a wee thing, you used to say “jag-wire”. It was cute. We corrected you, but it was cute. When you’re in single digits, you can get away with stuff like that.

When you’re on national television, not so much.

They used Jag-wire so often and so confidently, they made me begin to doubt myself.

I looked it up.

Mom: 1; commentators: 0.

The word is pronounced jag-wahr. Unless you’re promoting the car with a British accent in which case you say Jag-yoo-are. But not jag-wire. Not now, not ever.

Unless you’re 5 years old.

Love, Mom

Dear Kid,

I’ve talked about elephants before here, here, here, here, here, here, and here, but I haven’t talked very much about bulldogs except here, here, and here. It seems a fitting time to share with you

They were originally bred in England for bull baiting and were bred to be low to the ground and have lots of wrinkles. While we now think of all those wrinkles as adorable (or adorabull if you prefer) the folds were to help block flying blood from getting in the dog’s eyes during the fight. Yuck. Their wrinkles need to be wiped regularly to avoid infections and accumulation of Ick.

Bulldogs are very popular mascots meaning Uga, the mascot of the University of Georgia, is just one of many. But (imho) they’re an odd choice, because they’re not big on exercise and they have all sorts of respiratory issues. They also tend to suffer from hip dysplasia.

Bulldogs are (new word alert) brachycephalic which means short of snout and large of head. They are not water dogs. In fact, they’re in danger of drowning. Between their smooshed faces and under bite they are also generally gassy, snore and snort, drool and fart.

On the plus side, they are cute, friendly, independent, and self-confident. And they’re happy to cuddle up with their people.

Roll Tide.

Love, Mom

Dear Kid,

Yes, the Winter Olympics are fast approaching. Actually, they are approaching at the same rate as always, but (as always) they’re getting closer. Here’s what you need to know (actually you don’t need to know, but it’s interesting).

This is the 23^rd Winter Olympics.

The slogan for this year’s Olympics is “Passion. Connected.” Which I like a lot.

There are two official mascots for the games. Soohorang (a white tiger which is Korea’s guardian animal) and Bandabi (an Asian black bear which symbolizes strong will-power and valor). And they’re cute. Very cute.

In PyeongChang (please note the capital “C” which is a recent addition to help people distinguish between PyeongChang where the Olympics are and Pyongyang, the capital of North Korea) they’ve built a ginormous (35,000 seat) pentagonal stadium for the games. They will use it for the opening and closing ceremonies (and some other stuff). Then—get this!—they plan to tear it down. Gone. Goodbye. Nice to have had you here.

Meanwhile there are a bunch of other venues (“venues” is an important word for the Olympics).

At these venues we’ll see traditional games and four new sports: curling mixed doubles, speed-skating mass start, alpine team event, and snowboard big air. So more like “variations” than “new” sports.

There will be three Mexican athletes at the games (they all qualified for alpine skiing). This is three times the number of athletes Mexico generally sends. And it’s more than the NFL will send since they’re sitting this one out (I think that’s a good thing). It’s possible the Jamaican women’s bobsled team might qualify for the Olympics this year. I am not making that up.

Now you know.

Love, Mom

Dear Kid,

Did you blink? 2017 was here and gone in an instant that felt like a decade. Each minute dragged on and on yet as a whole the year whooshed by.

I will leave it to others (like the great historian Dave Barry) to remember enough of what went on in 2017 to write year-end summaries and reviews.

I’m looking forward.

Forward to friends having healthy babies and sending me videos of babies laughing (not kidding—I expect a ton of happy baby videos, L).

Forward to weddings and anniversaries and birthday celebrations. And to spending time with the people celebrating them.

Forward to spending time with friends I haven’t seen for a while.

Forward to trips and forward to staying home.

Forward to reaching new levels in Word Cookie (it’s my new addiction—don’t judge).

Forward to an even bigger and better Cincinnati Coffee Festival. (Is that Possible? Yes—just wait).

Forward to the Olympics and Olympic achievements by all.

Forward to listening to the Puppy snore. (Cutest noise in the world.)

Forward to new adventures and comforting sameness.

Forward to spring, and summer, and fall (and not so much winter).

Forward to sharing others’ joys and finding some of my own.

Forward (with highly mixed feelings) to graduations and new starts.

Happy 2018.

Love, Mom

Dear Kid,

There ought to be a law.

There should be a deadline for when Christmas Holiday Christmas music needs to stop. And that time should be (according to my very scientific calculations) the Day After.

It is now officially time to pack away the tinsel drenched songs until next year. Yes, we can wait until October (seriously? Not even November?) to celebrate Rudolph, the partridge, and all bells (jingling or silent).

Especially at the gym. It’s hard enough to work out to I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas prior to the holiday. It’s virtually impossible now. And now they seem to be playing more of the dirge varieties. Knock it off, people!

Also, I have now officially heard the Worst Ever Christmas Song. Worst. Ever. It’s called Text Me Merry Christmas. The title should tell you all you need to know. I’m including it, but I don’t recommend listening.

What a sad commentary.

I’m hiding under my pillow until Groundhog Day.

Love, Mom

P.S. Congrats to the #CincyCyclones on the win last night!

Dear Kid,

On Thanksgiving, we take a moment to focus, to appreciate all that is important. To reflect on the important things in life. To honor priorities. In short, to watch football.

There are a lot of football games on Thanksgiving weekend.

In an attempt to give the holiday its due, your father tried to watch all of them.

Never mind that we don’t have 437 TVs. Never mind that we don’t get all 46 billion channels. Dad flipped channels like it was his job.

Which is disconcerting for someone like me.

I generally watch football While Doing Other Things. Like writing to you. I glance up, make sure the players are doing what they’re supposed to do, and go back to whatever else I’m focused on. I think I glance up frequently enough that I don’t miss too much (#InstantReplayRules).

It’s a technique that works brilliantly under normal conditions.

This Thanksgiving, “normal conditions” were nowhere in sight.

I’m used to every now and then getting so engrossed in what I’m doing that I miss a great play or – occasionally – a scoring play, and I look up to find that there has been a major shift in the game.

I am not used to every now and then glancing up to see that the uniforms have changed.

At first I thought the color on the TV went all wonky.

Then I realized The Great Channel Flip had commenced. I commented to Dad that normal people watch one game at a time. Apparently my comment was not worthy of a response, although I’m pretty sure there was an implied withering look.

The upshot is that there was a lot of football, but I have no idea what happened in any of it.

Presumably some teams won.

I’m sure you know more about it than I do.

Love, Mom