NFL Dad: 6 hours of RedZone with 2 kids under the age of 3

Killing time until 1 p.m. Eastern during football season used to feel like an eternity. Wake up at 11, eat a breakfast sandwich, set fantasy lineups, and then ... wait. Maybe go to a bar? Yes, I would go to a bar and watch dozens of TVs at once and drink all the beer I wanted for three or seven hours.

That was another lifetime. Today, I spend my morning at a 3-year-old’s birthday with my wife, daughter (almost 3), and son (16 months). The party, which is three miles from our home, requires us to pack enough provisions for an Arctic expedition, yet I eat no breakfast and pack no food for myself; I am too preoccupied with the high-wire act of keeping two toddlers happy and entertained without resorting to bribery.

Because the kids’ naps (and my job) start at 1 p.m., my wife and I vow to leave the party at EXACTLY noon. We leave at 12:15. My son falls asleep in the stroller, practically guaranteeing he won’t take his usual two-hour nap. But that doesn’t mean we won’t TRY to get him to sleep. We arrive home at 1. I take off my son’s shoes and dunk him in his crib like Shawn Kemp cleaning up the glass.

I turn on the TV, and Scott Hanson’s handsome visage fills the screen. I instantly have the same feeling that people used to have for news anchors: Here is a steady voice to guide me through the coming storm.

— The Titans, hosting the Raiders, begin their season with an onside kick attempt; it fails, and Derek Carr will start at midfield. The Browns begin their season by getting a punt blocked, which the Steelers recover for a touchdown. Marshawn Lynch rumbles through traffic for a gain of 14 on his first carry as a Raider. Matt Stafford throws a pick-six. Amari Cooper catches a touchdown. The Jets intercept a Tyrod Taylor pass in the end zone but fumble the ball back during the return? I can’t be sure about that last part, because I’m reading to my daughter before her nap. Mr. Plumbean has a big orange splot of paint on his roof, and the neighborhood association is PISSED.

On third-and-12, Carson Wentz evades most of the Washington defense and hucks it downfield to a wide-open Nelson Agholor, who races in for a 58-yard score. I have now seen multiple touchdowns scored on offense, plus defensive and special teams scores, AND I’ve read a children’s book. It has been 15 minutes since I turned on the TV.

— At 1:20, with both kids in bed and Marcus Mariota scoring on a zone-read keeper, my wife leaves to run some errands. “Is that my son making noise?” I think to myself as she closes the door. Surely not!

1:22 — He is definitely awake. I go to check his diaper; it’s dry. I sing him a song and put him back down.

1:26 — I leave my son’s room to the sound of my daughter calling me. She needs a diaper change. I sing her a song and put her back down.

1:31 — I leave my daughter’s room to the sound of my son crying. The Ravens intercept Andy Dalton as I pour a bottle of milk. SLEEP, YOU ADORABLE VAMPIRES.

— In Nashville, the Raiders go for it on fourth-and-1 inside the Titans’ 5. Marshawn Lynch sidesteps an unblocked defender in the backfield, then fights two more defenders to move the chains. Now facing first-and-goal from the 2, the Raiders proceed to:

Goddammit, Raiders! You indefensible slugwits. Did Super Bowl XLIX teach you nothing? THE SEAHAWKS DIED SO THAT YOU MAY LIVE.

And well, well, well, looky here. It’s Derek Carr taking shots at the Seahawks play calling back in June:

ENJOY REGRESSING TO THE MEAN, FRESNO BOY.

— My son is making noise in his crib, but he isn’t crying. He’s probably having fun by himself in the dark room, right? I leave him be. As Andy Dalton throws another interception, I text my wife and beg her to come help. She’s nearby! Parenting: successfully dodged.

— Jordan Howard scores for the Bears to tie Atlanta 10-10 just before halftime. There’s a ton of Twitter chatter about Tarik Cohen, a player I have definitely heard about before today because I am a fantasy football savant and professional NFL commentator. Like, who doesn’t know that Cohen, uh ... (*opens new tab*)

... is an American football running back? And that he played the same position for North Carolina A&T? Common knowledge for even the most common fan, says this dedicated NFL expert.

— Chris Thompson scores an incredible touchdown for Washington:

Yes, it was pitiful tackling from the Eagles, but credit Thompson for staying on his feet through the contact. Kind of unfair that Kirk Cousins gets credit for throwing that touchdown.

— In Houston, where J.J. Watt received a hero’s welcome when he stepped on the field, the Texans are getting worked by the Jaguars. Tom Savage fumbles, resulting in a scoop-and-score for the Jags, but it’s overturned on review — his arm was moving forward before he lost the ball. The telecast barely has time to show that Calais Campbell has 3.5 sacks in the first half when Savage is sacked and fumbles AGAIN, resulting in another defensive score. For a moment, I thought I was watching a replay of the previous fumble return touchdown, but no: This is a different play, and this time it counts. The Jags go into halftime up 19-0; Tom Savage has been sacked six times while leading Houston to 52 yards of offense.

— Through 100 minutes of RedZone, I have seen one offensive play from the Jets: a 1-yard pass. Granted, I missed some time while parenting, but RedZone knows what the people want: not the Jets, dear God, anything but the Jets.

— Deshaun Watson makes his Texans debut; Bill O’Brien has benched Tom Savage. And say what you will about O’Brien’s complete inability to evaluate quarterback talent. At least he’s quick to pull the hook when he chooses the wrong guy, which is usually. Watson completes his first three passes in what is already the Texans’ longest drive of the day — not that the bar was high.

The drive ends in a touchdown pass to DeAndre Hopkins, and I cannot understate the glaring and obvious difference between Savage and Watson. Savage’s movement in the first half resembled the first time in Ratatouille that Remy remote-controlled his blindfolded human friend by yanking his hair. Watson, conversely, looks like a natural biped. I am convinced Bill O’Brien has brain parasites.

— Hey, a Jets touchdown! I saw precisely zero of the plays that led to it. The ensuing two-point conversion is intercepted, and I believe all the way down to my marrow that every Jets TD this season should come with a pick on a two-point attempt. I want to look at the final score every week and have reason to doubt that they scored a touchdown.

— T.J. Watt earns a personal foul penalty and then immediately intercepts DeShone Kizer. He’s got two sacks and a pick in his debut for a storied NFL franchise. I’m going to enjoy this moment right now: It’s the last one before I am shown T.J. Watt’s face repeatedly every week. But at this second? I couldn’t pick T.J. Watt out of a crowd of large, muscular people. It’s nice.

— Matt Ryan finds Austin Hooper wide open for an 88-yard touchdown. “Wait,” you’re saying, “how does a tight end run the length of the field without getting caught?”

Well, my friends, he does it by putting Quintin Demps into the ground:

RIP, Quintin Demps, conveniently already buried in the grass of Solider Field.

— Quick story from the kids’ birthday party. One of the dads there had a thick orange cast on his hand. He was a bookish guy: slim, glasses, graying hair and gray beard neatly trimmed — a Brooklyn Dad like many other Brooklyn Dads. One of the other dads gestured to his cast and said, “What happened?”

He sighed. “I smashed it pretty bad at Burning Man.” A long pause, and none of us interrupted it. He added: “... as one does.”

— Tony Romo breaks down Seth Roberts’ touchdown, pointing out the Air Raid staple Four Verts. It’s maybe 10 seconds of analysis, but it’s like breathing pure oxygen after YEARS of Phil Simms leaking carbon monoxide into my home. It’s also only one game, and we haven’t had time to get tired of his vocal tics, but Tony Romo is already legitimately great in the booth.

Thank you for retiring, Tony. This is so much better than you making the Broncos good.

— HOLY ADOREE’ JACKSON:

He jumped at the 26-yard line and landed at the 33: approximately 21 feet in the air, in football gear, as three different players tried to stop his forward movement. It’s no surprise he almost went to the Olympics for the long jump.

— Tarik Cohen scores a touchdown on what looked like a wheel route (my attention is not always fully invested in Mike Glennon’s work), and the Bears are giving the Falcons all they can handle. Remember that name: Tarik Cohen. I certainly will and always have, dating back to his youth in Bunn, N.C.

— On third-and-6 in the red zone with his team trailing, Kirk Cousins makes a terrible throw that gets intercepted at the goal line. The next time RedZone clicks over to the Washington-Eagles game, Brandon Graham is pulverizing Cousins just as he’s about to throw, leading to a fumble that Fletcher Cox takes into the end zone to ice the game. The replay looks like it could be ruled an incomplete pass, but the refs are like, “Nah, let’s go home,” and I respect that.

— With the Bears trailing by six, Mike Glennon leads a hopeful but doomed last-gasp drive into the red zone. He gets sacked on fourth-and-10 to end the game, and the Bears all lift him onto their shoulders to celebrate covering the 7-point spread. They’re gonna be the best damn five-win team you’ve ever seen.

— The Jaguars are up 29-7 with two minutes remaining, and they now have nine sacks. But hey, at least the Texans found their quarterback! He was hidden in the first round of the draft! Who would think to look there?

— The Lions and Cardinals are taking their sweet damn time finishing up their game. Kenny Golladay scores on a deep bomb, his second touchdown of the day, and I rue each of my three fantasy drafts in which I gave him serious consideration but ultimately passed. With the Lions up 28-17, Carson Palmer throws a pick-six. Ballgame.

— Ugh, Colts-Rams on RedZone. I’d rather watch truck commercials. I grab the remote because I’m choosing Seahawks-Packers and commercials over the barren puntscape of the RedZone channel during the late games. I try to click over, and nothing happens. Am I in hell? No: I removed the batteries when I gave the remote to my son. Kid loves anything with buttons. Give him a room filled with fans, clocks, and buttons to push, and the only thing I’d ever have to do is change diapers and toss food in a couple of times a day.

But before I can change the channel, Scott Tolzien throws a touchdown, but to the defense. The Rams are up 10-0 barely three minutes into the game.

And hey, Colts? Y’all know Colin Kaepernick is free to sign, right? You don’t have to ship your former first-round draft pick to the NFL’s reigning dynasty for its third-string quarterback.

— You and I, we’re friends, right? We’ve gotten this far in this football LiveJournal together, and so it’s time you knew the truth: I am a Seahawks fan, and for the next three hours, the TV will be on this game. If you are a Panthers fan who wants to read about the 49ers game, you should leave this page now before you get even more disappointed.

— The first quarter is bad, both from my perspective as a Seahawks fan and for anyone who enjoys fun things. Seahawks defensive tackle Nazair Jones, who has one of the most uplifting stories in this year’s rookie class, intercepts Aaron Rodgers point-blank and rumbles the length of the field for an incredibly rare and joyous Fat Guy Pick-Six.

The Seahawks, though, pick up two flags on the play: Cliff Avril had a glancing swipe of Rodgers’ shoulder pads that was ruled a block in the back, and cornerback Jeremy Lane — who was dragged to the ground by Davante Adams grabbing his facemask — was ejected for a retaliatory forearm shiver. The touchdown is wiped off the board.

I do not yell. I do not swear. The person that my children see in this moment is, essentially, the same gentle father who guides them through every morning and every night. Perhaps I say, “Gosh darn it,” which my daughter parrots, which makes me smile even though my blood is BOILING. I calmly pour myself a glass of gin in a mug. The game, somehow, stays scoreless through the quarter.

— My daughter has a habit of repeating the same question over and over; it’s how she sponges up language, hearing the same words repeated until she gets everything in full context. But ohhhhh, sweetie, my daughter, light of my life: If you ask me “What is the yellow man doing?” again, I will lock you out in the hallway. His name is Aaron Rodgers, and he’s screwing us, mmkay?

— Five minutes into the second quarter, the Seahawks get their first first down. BUST OUT THE CONFETTI. But on third-and-7, Russell Wilson — under pressure from Mike Daniels — overthrows an open Tyler Lockett downfield on what would have been a touchdown.

— How have the Packers not scored yet? Aaron Rodgers seems to have two or three miracle third-down conversions every drive before the Seahawks defense can force a punt. The only reason Green Bay hasn’t kicked a field goal yet is Jon Ryan, the finest ginger Canadian punter in the NFL, who pins the Pack deep repeatedly.

— I’m still mad about Naz Jones’ touchdown being called back, and I’m still mad about Lane’s ejection. But time and gin are helping.

— My daughter asks if I took any photos of her at the birthday party today. Are you kidding? All I do is photograph my kids. So she crawls up onto the couch, and I swipe through pictures of her blowing bubbles and pushing a giant beach ball as the Seahawks only rush three on third-and-16 and OF COURSE Rodgers converts! UGH. NEVER RUSH THREE. YOU IDIOT COWARDS.

I don’t say any of that, of course. I am sharing a moment with my firstborn, trying to focus on the sheer joy that she got from blowing some bubbles on a sunny day in the park. That’s the life, man. Just blowing bubbles. Sports are for dopes.

— With a minute left in the half, the Seahawks get the ball on their own 11. With three straight running plays, it’s clear Pete Carroll wants to kill the clock and head into halftime with the score knotted at zero. But the Packers — anticipating a chance for one last drive — call their final two timeouts before the Seahawks, seemingly by accident, pick up a first down. NOW they call a timeout and try to score.

The next two plays are a 34-yard pass to Doug Baldwin and a Wilson scramble to the Packers 15-yard line. It is incomprehensible to watch after almost a full half of three-and-out drudgery.

So with two timeouts and the ball on the 15, the Seahawks are forced to kick a field goal on third down, lest the clock expire without getting any points — all because they wasted half their time trying to burn the clock at the other end of the field. This team is bad and winning, and I hate them.

— Let’s check in on the action in Los Angeles and Santa Clara.

See? I’m not ignoring the 49ers and Rams games! I’m merely giving them the same enthusiasm they got from local fans.

— With the Seahawks facing third down deep in their own territory, I think, “Oh God, Russell’s going to throw an interception here, isn’t he?” But no, I’m wrong. He fumbles instead. Packers get the ball on the 5.

Watching the replay, Troy Aikman blames Wilson for not protecting the ball better. And yes, that is technically factual, but it also ignores the reality of Packers linemen streaming through Seahawks-colored turnstiles on every play.

Hey, Dr. Aikman, maybe we can talk about the sickness instead of blaming the symptoms? (LIFEHACK: Never go to a doctor named “Troy.”)

Ty Montgomery punches it into the end zone. Packers up 7-3. Crap.

— Jimmy Graham gets mugged in the end zone, and the refs don’t call pass interference. The announcers find it questionable. Mike Pereira says it’s a bad call. I yell, “P. I.!” My daughter yells, “P. I.! P. I.!” because she knows more about football than these refs. Seahawks Twitter ... well, I will spare you the things that Seahawks Twitter said, but this unrelated image sums it up:

Deep breath. Here is my rational take: It’s the kind of call you don’t get when you’re the away team and it’s not your day, and this is most definitely not the Seahawks’ day.

I close my laptop. I pause the game. When I come back to watch it, after my kids are in bed, I will watch most of the fourth quarter on fast-forward. The frames that click by will look like repeats of each other: Rodgers knocked to the ground, but a Packer with the ball crossing the yellow line anyway. The final six minutes-plus of game time will pass that way, the ending so unremarkable I zip past the final: Packers 17, Seahawks 9.

But for now, with sports frozen in time, I read books to my kids. I sing them lullabies. I hug them and kiss them, and their hair is fine and soft like fresh corn silk as I put them to bed.

It is immeasurable how much better this is than football. Even when my team wins.