Editor's Note: With Super Bowl XLIII less than a month away, the story of how one Fresno Dads Club father spent last year’s Super Bowl Sunday bears repeating. Enjoy, and don’t forget to wash your hands afterwards.You know how it is. Even though Super Bowl Sunday is designated as "Dad's day off" in our household, as the dad I was still required to spend most of the catching up on a little household maintenance, swapping out our showerhead and toilet seat for newer models and cleaning, to whatever extent possible, my at-home office. But when 5 p.m. rolled around, the time came to drop whatever I was doing with that day "off" and take over Boy Care, while Mrs. headed to the kitchen after watching the first half of Super Bowl XLII, Patriots vs. Giants, abandoning the game in favor of creating some eggplant parmigiana for the family.
So Super Bowl XLII remained on in the background while I spent a rainy late afternoon in my living room with my three-year-old son, The Boy. The halftime show was just ending as I entered the room, and I watched bemused as The Boy kept his back to the television, combining and recombining Legos into any number of fascinating configurations before asking to play a rousing game of Candyland.
I admit it. The two years I spent in Providence made me a New England Patriots fan. But that said, even when “my team” is there, I tend to show about as much interest in actually watching the Super Bowl as a timberwolf does in visiting a shopping mall. To me, even if my team is there, the Super Bowl is usually just a bad football game played in front of an audience where commercials take center stage, fighting for space in the audience's minds with the snack pile and the "brews remaining" count.
Our living-room Lego adventures continued until the eggplant parmagiana was ready, and after that hearty and tasty meal, we sauntered off once again to the living room, where we found the New York Giants had just taken the lead from my heavily favored Patriots. The Lego reassemblies suddenly degraded into a father/son tickle fight, and after the giggles subsided, The Boy stood up, headed for his train table, and while bending at the waist and holding on to the table's edge with both hands, he began jumping up and down.
Months of experience told me this was The Signal; The Boy needed to poop. And the Patriots, slightly behind on points, were trying to score on four downs with less than a minute left in the game.
Now, you must understand we've had nothing but trouble in the potty-training department since I had some business travel a month earlier. I pretty well had The Boy trained for both Number Ones and Number Twos before the Thanksgiving holiday, but with my mother-in-law stepping into the Boy Care role while I traveled -- and no, having raised three kids of her own, she doesn't like to take direction from a mere "dad" on anything I do for The Boy, including training methods -- something happened. I know not what, exactly, but suffice it to say while in the care of Mother-In-Law, The Boy reverted entirely to making messes in Pull-Ups, completely losing interest in and developing an active resistance to any semblence of toilet use.
In the intervening weeks we've had a devil of a time retraining him, achieving only a complete lack of success. Stubborn one, this Boy, preferring when "the feeling" comes to stay put and have what he calls "an accident," despite copious reward offers.
So, at the moment he began jumping, two clocks were ticking. One for the trailing Patriots, and one for potty-time success.
In the final minute, as the Patriots attempted to move the ball downfield, I attempted to move The Boy down hall, coaxing him into heading toward the bathroom and trying for his "first down" since November. As the Patriots' quarterback Tom Brady got sacked, The Boy looked to me from atop the throne and said, "Would you go away for a minute?"
I left the bathroom just as the Patriots offense ran out of downs, and for a moment, we believed all was lost.
But then, as Patriots coach Bill Belichick strode onto the field to congratulate the about-to-win Giants, the bathroom door cracked open. There, as the announcers spoke of the Giants impending win and the efforts to restore order on the field so the game's final second could be played, a triumphant Boy stood, grinning at me proudly. He opened the bathroom door and pointed to the toilet, saying, "Tah-dah!" and revealing a bowl-bottom lump of potty-time success that, in many ways, must have resembled how many Patriots fans felt at that moment.
Yes, my team lost. And yes, I missed the end of the game. But I couldn't have been more proud. After all, after a long season of wins and fumbles, my Boy had just won the Pooper Bowl.
--by Tim Savage, a.k.a. 'Thorne',
charter member of FDC and full-time dad