Tears for Tom

To quote the sports announcer, "A perfect season is only a perfect season if you win the Super Bowl." And the New England Patriots did not.

While getting ready for breakfast this morning, Clay asked me which team I was rooting for. I had no idea who was even playing. My dad is probably not proud that he raised a daughter who could not care less about football.

I've always told dad I never wanted my kids to play football. It's that overprotective Momma nature in me. When Bruce and I watched "We Are Marshall" a couple months ago, I literally yelped out loud during one scene involving a particularly brutal tackle. I can't take it.

Clay likes sports strictly to play them. He is not overly competitive.

Spencer is our VERY competitive boy. He has no fear of playing any game, with anybody. He's like a little chihuahua that's willing to play with a mastiff.

When Spencer was born, I accepted that I'd have to bury my fears and never let my kids know of them. And they don't. (About sports anyway.) Clay would take every "what if" and twist it to mythical proportions (like me), and Spencer would take every warning as a challenge.

Last fall, I encouraged Clay to play Upwards flag football. He was afraid he'd get hurt. I stressed that it was "flag" football, but he wouldn't budge.

Since then, between listening to his buddy Ben and playing his Nintendo DS game, he has developed an interest in the game. And a man at church who stays with the kids during children's church has fostered in Clay a real love of the game. He even went so far as to buy (with his own money) a couple extra balls, because the older boys wouldn't let Clay and the younger fellas play with the only football in the church gym. Both Mr. Mike and Clay have a ball now, so that chances are good that at least one of them will remember to bring an extra ball.

And Clay has changed his mind about playing football. (I'll handle my own psychoses on the game privately.)

So I wasn't surprised when Clay asked this morning about the game. I gave him the only tidbit I had gleaned from the papers.

"Which team does Manning play on? That's the team I'm rooting for."

Evidently not the answer he was hoping for. To make a long story short, we ended up betting on the winner of the game. I regreted it as soon as the words came out of my mouth. But Bruce ran with it. He told Clay to go get $5 from his piggy bank, and he matched it with money from his wallet.

Great. I've got my 7-year-old gambling. Makes a Momma proud.

That kid watched every second of that game, except the parts that Bruce fast forwarded through. He was even starting to get cocky. And yet, in the end, the New York Giants pulled it off. An upset to be sure.

And my poor little guy cried. His face scrunched up and everything. I felt terrible when he handed me the $10.

I watched while Bruce consoled him, and then I couldn't take it anymore. I gave him the $10 back. And Bruce gave him a mini-lecture about placing bets.

The tears dried up immediately.

That little booger wasn't all that upset about the Patriots losing. He was upset that he lost his $5, and the chance at winning my $5 as well. Actually, Bruce's $5.

He is his daddy's son, after all. I should have spotted it quicker.