This year I didn’t cook anything special for the Super Bowl. I made a normal dinner, which we ate at the table. (For the past few years, I’ve made nachos from scratch — easier said than done — and we’ve eaten them at our coffee table while watching the Super Bowl.) At the end of dinner, my football-loving husband invited everyone into our great room to watch the game.
I found the three of them in the great room once I got up from the table. Marc was watching the game. Ari was alternating between reading books and playing with his collection of balls. Isabelle was snuggled-up on the couch under a blanket.
The time hovered around seven. I considered making Isabelle go upstairs since her bedtime was rapidly approaching. Instead, I asked, “May I snuggle with you?”
“Yes!” she said.
I cozied up next to her and chatted for a few minutes before she drifted off to sleep. (Somehow Marc got her upstairs and ready for bed.)
I retreated to my office to do some work until it was time for Ari’s nighttime bottle. When it was time for him to go upstairs, Marc transported him up the stairs to his bedroom where I held him as he drank. I noticed Ari was more awake than usual after his bottle. So I asked him, “Do you want more milk or do you want to snuggle?”
“Nugga-nugga,” he replied. (That means “snuggle-snuggle.”)
I obliged. I sang lullabies as he wiggled around looking for the perfect spot. Finally, he laid across my lap as I rocked him to sleep.
My Super Bowl Sunday was filled with snuggles. And for this non-football fan, I have to say, I think it’s the best Super Bowl Sunday I’ve ever had. (Sorry, Marc!)