You then plant yourself in front of the television, balancing a large plate of food on your knees. You have foolishly left your buffet unattended, knowing the pitter-patter of little feet overhead is the children gorging themselves on sugar.
And about thirty minutes into the game, the shrieking and fits of hysterical laughter coming from their direction confirms this very thing.
But you allow it because, after all, it's the Super Bowl. It's a once-a-year phenomenon. It's the only time you ever sit down in front of a football game with your husband (but let's be honest, you're really only there for for the commercials). You pretend to care about field goals and touch downs while you daydream and drool over the back and front sides of Kurt Warner.
You cheer when that one guy goes running across the big green field and scores some points. You feel mildly annoyed when there's a pit in your stomach, as you root for the guys in the red and white uniforms to win.
You console your husband when they don't.
Then you send your husband off on a business trip with a plate full of snacks for the ride. You happily start chatting with your friend Shiloh, and look up to find that the clock says almost two in the morning. You mentally count the hours until you have to be up and going, and realize it's very few.
You decide to eat one last sugar cookie. Because at two in the morning? Sugar cookies are always a good idea.
You go to bed with horrible heartburn and swear yourself off sugar forever. Then after what feels like minutes, your alarm is startling you from sleep. You rouse the troops and find they are faring no better than you:
Except for one, who has the constitution of his father and doesn't seem to need, require, or care for little trifles like sleep:
[ Seen here opening his birthday presents yesterday - a few days early due to the Husband's trip this week]
You forget your self-imposed ban against sugar and decide a cookie for breakfast is the cure for what ails you. You wash it down with a diet coke.
Oddly, it doesn't make you feel any better.
You pledge to never combine football and sugar cookies again, and wonder if your friend Becky would lend you her extra special elastic-waist pants.
And that, dear friends, is how you experience the Super Bowl. In case you were wondering.