Super Bowl bound

Those of you who read a few posts ago know I had the unbelievable fortune of attending the AFC Championship game a couple of weekends ago. I don't need to remind some in my larger family (read: Niccolinis) that the New England Patriots (the good guys) prevailed over the Baltimore Ravens (the bad guys) in a suspenseful game with a stunning finish.

I doubt I can fully describe how much doggone fun I had at the game, the first Patriots game I had ever seen in person and I think the first NFL game I had attended since watching the Oilers in a playoff game in 1991, twenty years ago.

I have heard from those more tuned than I into all things Patriots that Pats fans had grown complacent with their teams' perennial success. As if every dinner were a feast, Patriots nation had become fat and happy, and thus unable to truly appreciate the team's amazing run of success over the last decade. The fans are boring, stay glued in their seats and nary raise a roar even if the game gets tight. The novelty of winning and of success had grown worn indeed, I was told.

So, despite my excitement, I was unsure what would greet me when we pulled into the parking lot for the pre-game tailgate. My good friend, Av, who had secured a ticket for me, and I were meeting two men from his hometown in New Hampshire who had season tickets. From the moment we got out of the car, you could sense festiveness in the air. Drinks, grills, portable heaters, blow-up players, footballs flying through the air, it was one big asphalt party. We broke out two grills and feasted on sausages, peppers, lamb kabobs, grilled chicken and enough chips and dip to feed a battalion. Some brews (no numbers given here) and much food later, we made our way into the stadium.

Our seats were high in the sky – upper level, just off the end zone. I can tell you I didn't care where we were sitting; I was simply overjoyed to be there. And, judging by the others fans in our section, that feeling was amply shared. People were standing, screaming their fool lungs out.

I never sat down. Many others did the same. And the game held everyone's attention in spades. It really was that good. In the fourth quarter, I had a sinking feeling that we may lose as the Ravens began to methodically move the chains. Ray Rice was gaining 5-6 yards on first-down carries, nicely setting up play-action passes for Joe Flacco, who, after a rough first half, had found his rhythm and his confidence. Even though the Pats took the lead in the final frame, the Ravens had the momentum, and their final drive appeared destined to be a winner.

Most know what happened at the end. But let me describe what happened in the stadium as Ravens kicker Billy Cundiff lined up to kick. Most of us, dare I say all of us Patriots fans, were readying ourselves for overtime. The snap, the kick.

Silence. One beat, two beats. Silence.

Then, pandemonium.

The stadium shook as grown men and women jumped around, dancing into the arms of strangers, high-fiving friends and row neighbors and acting like a little child who received his entire wish list for Christmas. No one, and I mean no one, expected that field goal to miss. It took those two beats for everyone to realize that, by golly, the kick had sailed wide.

The Patriots had won. They were Super Bowl bound.

GO PATS!

Short and Stout

Isaiah got his latest progress report from the doctor last week. And the bottom line is he's like a teapot: Short and stout.

And, now, a digression. The teapot song, if you please:

"I'm a little teapot, short and stout/

Here is my handle, here is my spout/

When I get all steamed up, I just shout/

Tip me over and pour me out."

I can't remember lyrics to a Jimi Hendrix song, but, yes, I have had the lyrics to the teapot song seared into my mind. This is parenthood.

Back to Isaiah: His height has gone from 6th percentile to 10th percentile. His weight has gone from 55th percentile to 65th percentile.

Now you know why he call him short and stout.

We love him!

Surprise Ticket

This is going to be one short blog but with a big piece of news, at least for me.

I've got a ticket to the NFL's AFC Championship game this Sunday.

I feel like the boy Charlie who discovers he had a golden ticket to enter Willie Wonka's chocolate factory. Maybe even luckier. I mean, out of the all the fans here in New England, all those rabid Patriots fans, and I have snared a ticket to Patriots v. Ravens?

Holy cow!

I really had almost nothing to do with this. Somehow, magically, my friend Av knew some people who, equally amazingly, either have season tickets or know some others who do and aren't going to the game. They aren't going to the AFC Championship game. Go figure that.

And since Av somehow knows these people, he found out they had an extra ticket. He told me several days that it looked pretty good that he would be able to go.

Then, around lunchtime today, I get a text from him. It read:

"My man, it's Av. SHALOM! I'm going to the game on Sunday..."

I was happy for him. He adores the Pats.

The text continued, "and might be able to get you a ticket. Stay tuned."

Trust me, I stayed tuned.

No more than a half-hour later, Av calls me: "You want to go to the game?" he asks.

I should've said, "You want my first-born?" OK, I don't want to go that badly.

But pretty close.

So, there you have it. I will be at Gillette Stadium in Foxborough on Sunday afternoon, cheering lustily for the New England Patriots as they take on the hated Baltimore Ravens.

My sister, her husband, and one of their children will be sitting at home, dressed in their Ravens jerseys.

Eat your hearts out, Niccolinis!

And... GO PATS!

Oopsy Order

We have a subscription to a possible pornographic web site. Let me explain how it happened.

This morning, Nathaniel was playing in his room as Michelle put our younger son, Isaiah, down for his morning snooze. When she entered Nathaniel's room, she noticed he had her phone. She asked why.

"Lamby has an owie on her bottom," Nathaniel said, pointing to the stuffed sheep's underside (stomach), which had been stained with some kind of liquid.

Michelle inspected the stain and asked again, "But why do you have my phone?"

Nathaniel answered, "I had to get it to call Doctor Tina," referring to our pediatrician, Christina Dierolf. "But she wasn't home," he added, still clutching Michelle's cell phone.

The phone suddenly beeped, indicating an incoming text. Michelle took a look.

The message read: "Thank you for subscribing to Sprint's 'Babes Unlimited.'"

Frantically, Michelle sought to figure out what had happened, and, instead, navigated her way to the site's first offering, a picture of a provocatively posed woman.

I swear I did not put Nathaniel up to this.

Michelle called me in a panic, asking me to call Sprint and cancel the subscription. I've got to say I was a little stunned when she told me we had just begun a subscription to scantily (if at all) clad women.

Sheepishly, I made the call. You bet I made great pains to blame it on our three-year-old son.

Let's hope this is not a pattern!

Seven Years

New Year's Eve is a special time for many people. A time to close the books on the year that was (for better or worse) and throw open arms to the year that will be, hopes and dreams attendant.

For Michelle and I, New Year's Eve is also our wedding anniversary. On New Year's Eve 2004, we got married in Iowa, so it's now been seven years of matrimony. Lots of ups, a few downs, lots of joy, some tension (hello, children!), many laughs, a few tears. A wonderful voyage so far. I know this is simplistic, but I've always likened marriage to rowing a boat. You get where you want to go if you are rowing in unison. Or, you don't, and you remain mired in the same place. For most of these seven years, Michelle and I have rowed synchronously and harmoniously. I feel blessed that we are on the same page on most matters and share the same values, especially the core ones. Like others, we don't agree on everything (cleanliness, the NFL and timeliness with performing chores come immediately to mind), but we are of one mind on the things that matter most. And if we do disagree, we talk about it. Most of the time.

We sing from the same script with our children, which is vital, for obvious reasons. Uniform, consistent rules and behavior in parenting is essential to raising children who are loving, kind, giving and respectful. We try hard to be fair and balanced with our boys and to instill in them the values we think are essential for them to one day be happy, adjusted, productive and successful. At least we hope we know what we're doing.

I remember the first time I met Michelle. Actually, it was the first time I saw her. I was working at a daily newspaper in Ames, Iowa, and I had walked into the newsroom on a Saturday morning. Usually, no one is there, and I had gone in only to nab a copy of that day's paper. Instead, the general manager had someone in his office, seated, with her back to the newsroom. All I could see was this long, gorgeous red hair. Boy, did I love that hair, for the fleeting moment that I saw it.

And that was that. Or, so I thought.

Maybe a week later, the woman with the flowing red hair appeared in our newsroom, and from there, haltingly, a relationship was born. A relationship greased by nights out with newsroom friends, visits to a honky tonk-like spot with odd characters crooning country tunes and watching Iowa State games (her alma mater) in person or on TV. This was October 2000 and by the time January rolled around, I was out of there, on to the Associated Press bureau in Rhode Island. It seemed like this little romance would end there.

And then a funny thing happened. We spoke almost every night on the telephone (no cell phones yet, folks). We didn't agree to do anything of the sort when we departed. It just happened. And those chats were easy, unforced, unhurried, seamless. We visited each other about every five weeks. And our relationship, which seemed as if it would be dashed against the rocks of distance, flourished.

In June 2002, Michelle, her brother, Matt, and I drove from Iowa to Rhode Island. Michelle was moving to New England, to join me. It was major leap for her, leaving the only state she had called home, leaving her family, leaving her friends, to be with me. I'm pretty sure I didn't fully appreciate the magnitude of her decision, not how hard it must have been to decide. But I'm glad she did it!

In the spring of 2004, I proposed to her. You can read that story here (the byline is wrong, by the way). And by the end of the year, we were married.

And now it's been seven years. Wow. Two children. A home. A family. An interconnected life. A marriage. A future together.

Sweet.

Dawn of a new year

Well, a new year is just about upon us. That means a time to reflect on the year that was and the year that will be.

First off, we are blessed and have much to be thankful for. We have two great, healthy and growing boys, we have loving families and friends, we own a house that is not underwater, we are never in want for food, and although there is inevitably something we'd like to have or somewhere we'd like to go, we have so much already. We have our faith, thanks to a neat church with fun, caring people. We have much to sustain us. Life, on balance, is good.

Not that there aren't trying moments. If you ask me without thinking to come up with two words to describe 2011, I would probably say fatigue and patience. Fatigue, and I mean the overwhelming kind, is a direct result of overseeing, guiding, managing, teaching, loving, nurturing, counseling, disciplining, nursing, shushing, bathing, picking up after, cleaning up after, running after, and repeating many of the same steps over and over and over again. It is nonstop, and it is taxing.

Hence, the fatigue. Yet in this fog of too little sleep and too much stress is a bounty of rewarding moments, small and large. In Nathaniel's world, the changes in 2011 have come fast and furious: New words and phrases – "That's disgusting," "You're silly," "Santa Claus" and the consequences of being naughty. New songs, many of them learned at school – "the clean up song," which goes: "Clean it up, (cluck tongue twice), clean it up/ you can make it fun to do, and your friends can help you, too/ clean it up, clean it up." A new way to sit, "Crisscross, applesauce," to deter him from squatting in the inverted "W" position, which is supposedly bad for hip development. New books – The "Little Critter" series, Dr. Seuss and others. Increased coordination: Shooting a basketball by holding the ball over his head and aiming it for the hoop, learned after watching one of Uncle Matt's players shoot a free throw in a game. New dance moves: from pirouettes learned by watching dancers at a downtown holiday festival to break dance moves learned from who knows where. This is just a taste of all that our 3-year-old picked up in 2011. I can only imagine that the learning will only accelerate in 2012.

As for Isaiah, the list may not be as long, but the advances are equally noteworthy. He can bounce a ball and corral it with admirable coordination. He can "sprint crawl," meaning that he can hustle floor bound nearly as quickly as some can walk. He can take a few halting, wobbly steps at a time. He can eat – boy, can he eat! Isaiah packs away as much as Nathaniel and frequently, even more. He stuffs so much into that little mouth of his that his cheeks bulge like a chipmunk's. Sometimes, he packs food in so rapidly that he chokes himself. I'm not kidding. With the synchronized rhythm of both hands moving food to mouth, it's like watching an assembly line of eating. The kid packs it away, and he has the belly to show for it. And, when the feeding has ended, Isaiah is always the most content person in the room. He beams, he laughs, he coos. Like his daddy, few things make him happier than having conquered a good meal. At 1, I would imagine that the appetite will remain in high gear in 2012. We can expect a slew of other milestones from our youngest in the new year.

I am glad to be a witness to it.

Happy new year, everyone!

Christmas in Iowa

Merry Christmas, everyone, from Iowa. We're in the Hawkeye State yet again for this special time, celebrating a very important birth with Michelle's family, Midwesterners through and through. Like many other parts of the northern United States, this Christmas seemed to sneak up on us, fooled by a stretch of unseasonably warm weather in December. Even here in Cedar Rapids, there is no snow on the ground on Christmas in as long as many can recall, which has underscored the oddity of it all. Despite the relative warmth, it's always great to know there's a time when family travel home to reconnect and enjoy each other's company.

This Christmas has been especially gratifying, because our boys are having a ball with their cousin, Kenley, who comes courtesy of one of Michelle's brothers and our sister-in-law. Kenley is about a year and a half, between Nathaniel (3) and Isaiah (14 mos.). She and Nathaniel have just reached the ages where they recognize each other and play together, albeit intermittently and with regular bouts over each other's toys. Still, it's a start to a beautiful friendship, and by next year, Isaiah also will be in the thick of it. Watching the cousins is clearly a highlight of visiting.

So, while it may not feel necessarily like Christmas, I would suggest that the warmth of family and the joy of cousins frolicking to and fro are largely what Christmas is all about. And we have that in spades.