You’re right, I DO think football is stupid and usually can’t tell you who’s even playing in the Super Bowl. But what I discovered this month is that the game is actually the least important aspect of the Super Bowl. No, really. It’s actually all about the parties and spectacles. In a word, it was AWESOME.

The weekend before the game, we took the kids downtown to check out the Super Bowl Village and to visit the NFL Experience. The roman numerals and Indy cars parked next to Monument Circle were a big hit. Henry and Eleanor were enthralled with the zipliners overhead near the convention center. The crowds milling around were a prelude to the crowds at the Experience. Fun to people watch, a little less fun to stand in line 20 minutes to kick a field goal (that was in the kids’ section, lines looked at least twice as long for the main attractions). Crowds aside, we had enough fun to come home and book a babysitter for the following weekend so Andy and I could take in the sights kid-free.

(You have NO IDEA how badly I wanted to hop onto that draft stage and reenact the Racial Draft Chappelle’s Show skit)

Last Friday, Andy and I headed back downtown for more people-watching with a side of walking-around-outdoors-drinking-beer. Fun light displays on buildings, fun fireworks, fun concert (LMFAO) that we didn’t see because of the crowds near the stage, fun times wondering who was riding in the bajillion tinted-window black SUVs circling downtown, fun atmosphere. Andy gave a very apt description: “It’s like Mardi Gras without the tits.”

At that point Andy and I might have become a tad Super Bowl obsessed, so we took the kids back downtown Sunday morning for an impromptu one last visit. Henry and Eleanor (especially Henry) had a blast tackling each other on the football field in front of the convention center. We wandered around to the ESPN studio so that Andy could get a chance to watch them film. It was there we had our token Super Bowl Celebrity Sighting. We first saw Chris Whathisname, who I always call Al Michaels in my head, and former NFL star and current hottie Steve Young. We knew Adam Sandler was due to be on their show, and out of nowhere he suddenly appeared. I even got to shake his hand, while Eleanor shouted “WHAT’S A MOVIE STAR?” as Andy tried to explain who he was. We had lunch at Steak n Shake surrounded by wealthy-looking New Yorkers, went back to the field for more tackling, discovered the crowds were starting to pick up, and headed home after one last look at the XLVI.

We’ve lived here for almost ten years now, but most days this Illinois girl doesn’t feel like a Hoosier. So it was weird to feel so proud of Indy last week, but that’s what I was—PROUD. I loved seeing our city favorably discussed in the national (even worldwide) media, watching 200,000 people party under fireworks and Homeland Security helicopters, and how Big City our dressed-up downtown looked. I’ve grown to love it here, and I’m glad the world came to visit and agreed with me.

But then I sat down Friday morning to start filling out registration paperwork. I went to write the word “kindergarten” and it suddenly hit me like a tons of bricks that HOLY SHIT MY KIDS ARE GOING TO KINDERGARTEN. Yep, burst into tears right there at the kitchen table.

(What, you mean YOU don’t text photos of yourself crying to your spouse so that he/she can share in your sorrow over fleeting childhood?)

Everyone tells you it goes by fast and I’ve said before on this blog about how it goes by fast but MAN it goes by so fast. Their newborn days seem so long ago but also like it was just yesterday, know what I mean? Henry and Eleanor are so curious and creative and I love seeing them master new things and grow and become people I love to hang out with. But I’ll look at them this week and suddenly my brain gets all-caps screamy KINDERGARTEN KINDERGARTEN KINDERGARTEN and then short-circuits trying to comprehend that my little kids won’t be so little for very much longer.

This “let them grow up and leave” thing is the hardest part of parenting for me. I won’t be a helicopter parent in the sense that I think Henry and Eleanor need to learn to deal with mistakes and rejection and all the yucky stuff that can happen in adulthood (we’re definitely not an “every kid gets a trophy” kind of family). But I can absolutely 100% guarantee that in thirteen years Henry and Eleanor will be at college, slowly shuffling down the Quad while I cling to their legs shrieking “MAH BAAAAAYBEEEEES.”

Luckily I have seven months to get my act together, but in the meantime, pass me that box of Kleenex, please.

And took silly-face self portraits!

And whined about popcorn until Mom and Dad bought us some!

And made up “jokes” then texted them to each other!

And I think some people were playing basketball, too?