Call me superstitious, but I can’t help but feel like we pissed off the football gods somehow by going back on our (okay . . . MY) name promise. You see, about this time last year, finding myself pregnant on the cusp of the playoffs, I made a promise. Should my beloved Colts win the Super Bowl, the baby would be named Peyton, boy or girl. Alas, it does take two people to make a baby, and He Who Shall Not Be Named was dead set on not having a boy named Peyton. And so we have Eli! Does Peyton make it past game one of the playoffs?? Nooooooo. Is there a Manning in the playoffs still? And his name is? I rest my case. So as sad as I am to have to retire my #18 jersey so soon (and it just now fits again!), it is with great pleasure that I present #10:
If Brett Favre weren’t so darn cute with his scruffy grey beard I’d be 100% behind Eli. Brett or Eli? Eli or Brett? Okay, now I’m getting all hot and bothered! I just hope one of them kicks the Patriots ass all the way to Foxborough.
Okay, I’m done with my football rantings now. Just a quick update before I turn in. Had a birthday, it was fabulous. I celebrated with Mike and the kids with take-out Cajun from Yats and red velvet cupcakes. Y-U-M. On my actual birthday my sister watched the kids so Mike and I could go to a party. Lots of wine and good company. The next night my parents watched the kids and we got to go out again. We were so giddy we could hardly contain ourselves. We saw a real movie in a real theater (Charlie Wilson’s War) and had a fabulous fancy dinner at Peterson’s. I am truly blessed.
Before I get too spoiled, Mike runs off to Vegas and leaves me with the kids for 4 days. This is day 4 and we have all managed to survive. Wine helps a lot. But I’m seriously about to pass out (from fatigue, not drunkenness, I promise!). Go Giants!
