Written by Emily
I stumbled across Boomer Esiason’s sports show for a second time this week en route to Disney Junior. I never noticed it before, but with his recent comments that hearken to a kinder, gentler era when women scheduled everything including invasive surgery around their husband’s work schedule, I was tempted to stop by. There’s nothing like a daily dose of archaic thinking to get my blood pumping.
For a guy who rocked what could best be described as a throwback to the greatest “mom hair” ever, you’d think he’d pay homage where homage is due. But no.
I have to assume he just doesn’t get it. Rather than declare him the spokesperson for white patriarchal supremacy or a giant d-bag, I’ll speak his language. No, not the language of bullheaded ignorance, arrogance and chauvinism that says men shouldn’t take time off for the birth of their children. Sports language. I hope they’re not the same.
Maybe if Boomer realized that parenting is like a sporting event, he’d show a little more respect.
Check out this guy. After winning a major bowling title he announced in crazed hysterics, “Who do you think you are? I am! Get it right!”
That makes no sense at all. None. But I’m pretty sure I’ve uttered those exact words to my children in the height of an emotional outburst. We’re pretty much the same person.
And then there’s Miguel Angel Jimenez. He’s a professional golfer. A professional.
It appears he learned his stretches from a Mommy and Me dance class. Trust me, I know.
Unlike Miguel, you won’t see many moms with cigars on the playground because it’s just not allowed. But you will find them with glasses of wine in their hands as soon as their little ones close their eyes. Some might argue their self restraint makes them even more professional.
Grace and Agility:
I’ve mentioned nothing of skill. Have you ever seen a parent wrangle his children into the car on an icy morning to get to everyone to school on time? I’d like to see an Olympic skater handle a partner whose body turned into a wet noodle and then suddenly a stiff board and do so with grace an agility. Won’t happen. And then, of course, there’s the delicate ballet of stepping over every Lego nestled into the carpet fibers in a sleeping child’s bedroom. Skill to the max.
And Boomer, let’s talk endurance. There’s nothing like a mom standing in line for 16 hours to snag a Black Friday deal for her cherub to open on Christmas morning. Or a mom who has quite literally bounced her colicky baby for 4 hours on an exercise ball to calm his aching something (I’m speaking from experience, Norman).
We even have a uniform…well, moms seem to have a uniform. And I’m not talking about the uncanny resemblance between Johnny Weir’s outfit and the one I just wore to my son’s Open House.
I’m talking about yoga pants. So what if there is very little actual yoga happening in those pants? There is plenty of bending to pick up that toy the baby keeps throwing again and again, stretching to put sheets on the bunk bed, pulling ourselves out of precarious positions, and sweating while we try to keep up. Let’s call everyday Bikram yoga. Namaste.
So, Boom, may I call you that? Instead of making yourself look like an ass clawing for ratings by identifying with halfwit neanderthals who shame Daniel Murphy for wanting to witness the birth of his child, think of Murphy as supporting his wife at the starting line of her/their biggest physical, mental and emotional challenge.
And if you don’t buy it, I have this to say: “Who do you think you are? I am! Get it right!”