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A couple of Sundays ago, the wife ran off to a baby shower — probably the 100th baby shower she’s attended since getting pregnant herself — leaving me in sole possession of our child. I was a little worried. Sunday in the fall should really be referred to as Football Sunday. The Ravens were suiting up. The kid was asleep. I worried about my ability to watch 22 men fight over an odd-shaped ball and entertain my child at the same time.

It turned out that he was a welcome addition to my Sunday ritual. The kid slept for much of the first quarter. When he did wake, he was as good as gold.

Outside of a request for some Baby Einstein, he didn’t seem to mind that dad was watching the game. He played on the floor. He visited me on the couch. He learned to signal touchdown. For a just a little while, he watched some football. He and dad managed to get some pigskin bonding in between commercials.

Afterwards, we walked around the block. His tiny legs and distracted eyes made the short jaunt a longer, but enjoyable, trek. After all, the sun was shining. The sky was blue. My little boy was keeping me company. Sometimes parenting is all it is cracked up to be.

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