Yesterday was Owen's last home game.
I can't say that I'm sad that his football season is coming to a close, especially after yesterday's game. Let me show you why.
First, let's all note my mad photoshop skills. I figured I might give y'all some assistance in locating him on the field. #38 is my Owen. My Owen plays defense.
Yes, my only 47 pounds soaking wet, scrawny kid plays defense.
I'm not sure what the parents of the other team's players are feeding their kids. Corn? Fresh farm beef? Human growth hormone? I do not know, but what I do know is that my kid spent an entire ballgame defending a kid double his size.
I usually don't go into protective Momma-bear mode. But after seeing him get knocked down and squashed play after play after play, I started demanding (very loudly) to my husband that I needed to see these other kids' birth certificates.
John wasn't moved by my demands. And in fact, he was impressed by what he saw.
I was only seeing my gnat sized baby being creamed by a man sized kid. John saw that Owen kept getting up. Play after play, no matter how hard he was hit, he kept getting back up. How does that old saying go?
Fall down seven times, get up eight? I think Owen's got that on lock.
We finished out what I consider to be a perfect fall day at a campfire with friends. I only got a couple of pictures because we were busy making mountain pies and smores and trying to keep children from jumping into the fire.
We shared beers and laughs and even a little bit of smack talking.
It's Sunday and all I"m going to do is nothing.
All is right in my world today.