Motherhood comes first. There are the chickens, the adopted chickens and then there’s Bama. As everyone on the planet knows, Bama lost last week. I have been called out for not mentioning it. So here goes.
I’ve been told to dine on crow. My pal during every game, Questionable Sportsmanship, and I deserve humble pie as well. Oldest Chicken will no longer watch the game in public with me. And now I’ve got Rabid Razorback breathing down my neck.
The truth is it has nothing to do with crow. This girl is not immune to a big old bunch of karma every now and again. The Bama loss has to do with guilt. Had I been a proper mother, perhaps The Tide may not have lost. My attention was not in full. They don’t know it–not a single player and certainly not Saban–that it is my mothering carrying them along each week.
I speak to them sweetly and softly as they take the field. They hear me through the television. I call them Baby as they run a perfect route or cradle a deft handoff. I tell them how good they look. I drill Baby Chicken every week as to which ones she knows and doesn’t know. If I lived there I may be guilty of all manner of silliness, halloween goodie baskets and chicken soup amongst them. But when they are not doing well, my mouth sprouts a life all its own, spewing forth descriptors no lady should have at the ready.
Perhaps the second time I fell to the floor in frustration, I should have realized juju goes both ways. A better mother would.
I had the best of intentions. We start Saturday with Katy Perry calling Ole Miss on Game Day. See if I ever think I’m a firework again, missy. All calms down when Corso dons the proper headgear. Then Mississippi State tramples over A&M and two nights before Arizona beats Oregon. No, not that Arizona. The other one. I know right? Then TCU does a little dance over Oklahoma. My mind wandered to my other chickens. I took my eye off the ball.
Middle Chicken is slaying dragons in DC; some of which I need to weigh in on. Baby Chicken is in the Ole Miss stadium. At the interception I dial furiously, “Get out of that stadium and do not engage their fans.” Seems legit. I know it would be impossible for me to keep my Roll Tide mouth shut. I assume the same for her. Evidently I teach better than I do. She laughs and says they left without incident.
Rabid Razorback makes himself known: “I’m extremely sorry for your loss. Now it’s the Razorbacks turn. Bahaha.” He just dropped off the chicken list. As he does some filming for me, I’m trapped between a rock and hard place. Do I say what I think or choose career and friendship? Ah, screw it–Roll Tide Rabid Razorback Boy.
I just made the sign of the cross.
And the day is not over. We witness ASU hurl a Hail Mary with a heartbeat of seconds left, toppling the Trojans and my highlight reel is blown. The world is topsy-turvy. Nothing is in its proper place.
The Fixer tells me mercury is in retrograde. The alignment of planets rearranged the rankings. Somebody else better damn well be in charge this week. Pfft.