Illustration by Jan A. Igoe
February would be a pretty lackluster month, except for Groundhog Day and, for some, the Super Bowl. I understand how the groundhog thing works, but football still eludes me. My game day role has historically been keeping the chip bowl full, fetching Buds and staying mute.
Still, one Super Bowl weekend made my highlight reel for all the wrong reasons. Even when my kids were young, I knew that my primary contribution to society would be keeping the youngest one out of prison. She had the brain power to do good, but the inclination to appear in front of a judge.
So one frigid Saturday morning—aka Super Bowl Eve—my hub decided to share the joy of ice skating on a frozen pond with our progeny, but no one had skates. By the time we found everyone’s size, we’d been to six stores, and the kids made sure to pee in every one. After all that hand-to-zipper combat with their snowsuits, all Mommy wanted was a nap.
Instead, we pulled up to a Norman Rockwell scene where happy families glided effortlessly around the frozen pond. Jessie, my 5-year-old, leaped out of the minivan, eager to experience frozen water that didn’t come from our Maytag.
But our 3-year-old mini rebel was a tad less eager to join Disney on Ice. “Too cold,” she squealed, slamming the door shut. So Daddy guarded the van while Jessie and I tried skating.
Muscle memory is not all it’s cracked up to be. My brain remembered skating much better than my extremities did. In seconds, I was flat on my back. Stars were still spinning as I clambered to my feet to calm Jessie, who expressed concern that Mommy was dead. Thirty seconds later, I went down again. This time on my face.
On Super Bowl morning, my body was a rigid, black-and-blue corpse. Hub left early to party with friends whose drinking kickoff was noon, so Jessie helped me dress. The mini rebel pursued us into the bathroom, the one with the broken door that locked by itself. I gently reminded her not to close it, which was her cue to slam it shut and trap us inside.
The rebel screamed with delight while Jessie cried. She was sure we’d starve since our survival rations consisted of one mangled tube of Crest, and we had no way to pick the lock from inside.
Although my knees were in rigor mortis, I knew I had to escape my kids. (Whoops, I meant, “I had to escape with my kids.”) Clad in a sports bra, antique sweatpants and my brother’s idea of a Christmas present—oversized, green-spotted dinosaur slippers that roared every time I took a step—I flumped my rigid carcass out the window into a white wilderness, where my emergency house key was buried somewhere under 2 feet of snow. That’s when I realized why you never see Eskimos posing in a bra and slippers. Tyrannosaurs, either, for that matter.
Fortunately, a police cruiser spotted me. The officer approached cautiously, curious about my attire and the faint screams of small children. But he agreed to pick the locks and freed both kids. I was going to ask if he could leave the small one in the bathroom but decided not to push my luck.
Twenty-seven years later, I still avoid ice, football and short criminals. But I’m here if you need more chips.
Maybe Jan A. Igoe should have included Valentine’s Day in the February lineup for Cupid fans, but she doesn’t understand those rules either. Insights from football fanatics and hopeless romantics are always welcome at HumorMe@SCLiving.coop.