Now the World Cup’s started, football’s taken over our house. You don’t get a look in. Unless you’re shades of green or shaped like a ball. Yes people. I am a World Cup Widow. Anyone else?
I wish I liked football.
I’m trying not to feel irritated by the fact that a round ball currently commands more attention from Daddy Pig than me. Than the round ball I’m currently smuggling up my top.
I’m not doing a very good job. Failing miserably. Actually.
I know. I should love the World Cup. I feel bad that I don’t. Even Beaver has the England World Cup flag proudly displayed in her bedroom. Though this is more for reasons of making a den for her toys than any real patriotic sentiment.
Yes. I wish I liked football, I really do. It would make our household a more harmonious one.
And it would make me a much cooler girl than I actually am. In Daddy Pig’s eyes.
‘Could you keep the noise down?’
But, to be fair, I have other things on my mind right now. Like having a baby.
I’d quite like it to feature on Daddy Pig’s horizon too.
Unfortunately, I think there is a strong chance this comparatively minor event will go by completely unnoticed. The sights of Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Woolwich vs. Maracana in Brazil. No contest really. Even I can see that.
So instead I’m having visions of contracting whilst Germany play the US. With Daddy Pig telling me to hold on for just a moment (once he’s looked up from the TV) as I deliver in the background. Him asking me to keep the noise down.
Because ‘the footie’s on.’
Perhaps I am being my own worst enemy. Perhaps I should just embrace this World Cup. Perhaps if you can’t beat ’em you really should just join ’em, right?
And it does seem that I know more about football than even I realised. Subconsciously.
Because the other night, as England played Italy and after an industrious day of washing, I put on Twitter. ‘Clean sheets. Is there anything better?’
And one of my followers thought I was referring to the football.
So I looked it up.
clean sheet (n): 1. (in sport) an instance of conceding no goals or points in a match or competition
Yes. That is obviously what I was talking about.
The World Cup Widows’ Club.
Although thinking about it. Why should I feel the pressure to join in? I don’t force Daddy Pig to watch my ‘interests.’ So do I really have to watch his? Just because his happen to have about 15 million more followers than mine doesn’t mean toffee.
Perhaps I’ll start a club. My very own World Cup Widows’ Club. Membership would be simple. You’d just have to answer a question about football, get it wrong and you’re in.
You wouldn’t even have to like shopping. Because shopping isn’t the antithesis of football, contrary to the emails flooding my inbox suggesting what I might like to buy whilst the game’s on. How cliched.
You might, however, have to be my birthing partner.
You know, in case Daddy Pig is otherwise engaged.
So, tell me. Are you a World Cup Widow? Or a World Cup Lover? Join us at Surviving Life and Motherhood and let me know the score… (not literally by the way, did you not just read this post?)