In hindsight, the morning of the World Cup soccer final may have been a bad day to call my boss and tell her I was coming in late because my family has Chicken Pox and I was letting my wife sleep in to catch up on the sleep she missed during the night in dealing with cry babies, and I needed to wait for her to wake before I would be on my way.

My boss just assumed that was an excuse so I could watch the World Cup final.

Ack.

(It was a good game, though.)

Honestly, the family is sick.

I just happened to catch the game because I was up early dealing with The Infected.

Unbelievably, D-Girl actually let me watch the football, instead of demanding that the channel be switched to her normal morning programmes.

She inquired as to why the men spent most of the time kicking the ball backwards and forwards to each other.

That’s just soccer, dear. They do that.

Yeah, I’ve got no idea why they call it the Beautiful Game either.
I only watch it for the headbutts (or chestbutts as the case may be) or to watch England supporters hooliganizing. They so crazy.

Of course, The Game did go on for aaagges.

D-Girl was very patient for 80 minutes, but beyond that she didn’t care for explanations about injury time and extra time and extra injury time and penalty shoot outs.

So I dug out the play dough and the building blocks.

It reminded me of why I wanted to be a father. So I could play with all those cool toys again.

I just can’t wait till she’s old enough for RC cars and paintball tag.