With that being said, Joe and I were ecstatic when we found out that Tyler was going to be a boy. We almost immediately started dreaming dreams of him becoming a professional football player, and us having season tickets to his NFL team of choice to cheer him on. Glorious, glorious dreams that were intensified with the strength that Tyler used to kick me whilst in utero. I used to put my hands on my ginormous belly and (using my best Adam Sandler impression voice) say, "He's gonna be a soccer player". But, really I meant that he was going to be a football player, duh.
After much deliberation, and taking into consideration his natural kicking talents, we decided that Tyler should be a kicker, a la Jason Hanson. Our reasoning being that the position offers a certain amount of implied safety (read: won't be getting tackled), while still allowing us to attend NFL games and cheer. Hoorah!And then Tyler was born. In case you don't know, or don't remember, his stats at birth were 10# 2oz and 22" long. Yikes. He has since been appropriately nicknamed Tank, and we've been considering line backer positions for him.
Today, however, Tyler told me that he's been preparing for a much more dramatic and media attention grabbing football position. He said that he was thinking he wanted to be a wide receiver. I questioned his line of thinking, not really believing that someone so big and heavy could move quick enough to out run and out maneuver the defense. As usual, he proved me wrong and showed me that he has added speed and agility to his football resume.
This morning Tyler and I went to the laundry room to fold a load of laundry while Delilah was eating her morning scoops. I've found that it is important to remove Tyler from the kitchen while Delilah is eating, otherwise he will "assist" her in eating her scoops. He can sense that I don't want him to eat/play with Delilah's food, and therefore is drawn to it like a moth to a flame, like a defensive lineman to a quarterback. It's nature I suppose. At first he was content to help me sort the socks; then, when the moment was just right, he escaped. The moment consisted of me picking up a pair of jeans, shaking them out, folding them in half, and hanging them up on a hanger. Less than 20 seconds. In that time, Tyler made a mad dash for the kitchen and Delilah's dish, some 30-40 feet away. When I looked and he was gone, I knew right where he was. I walked into the kitchen to find him sitting next to Delilah and her bowl, with his right hand full of dog food and his left hand in her dish grasping for more.
Look out Larry Fitzgerald, Tyler is gunning for your spot.
