If you live in North Dakota or Minnesota, you are legally required to be a fan of the Minnesota Vikings (or the Green Bay Packers, but only if every other football team in the world quits).  There’s a lot to like about the Vikings – the Skol chant, the horn helmet, the Gjallarhorn, the color purple – but also, being a fan of the Minnesota Vikings means you need to adopt the attitude of “Isn’t is great that today is a football game, and all of these guys are playing football, and we are watching them play today, on football game day,” because if you also think, “Hey, maybe there’s a chance the Vikings will win the Super Bowl!” then you are giving yourself unnecessary hope and heartburn because as sure as hotdish is topped with tatertots, if there is a football season, the Vikings will find a way to screw it up.

On December 17, 2022, the Vikings pulled off the biggest comeback in NFL history, beating the Indianapolis Colts 39-36 in overtime to clinch the NFC North Title.  Related, this date also marked the biggest crowd of in-person and at-home Vikings fans collectively “Holy Crap”-ping themselves in surprise.

It was a normal Saturday, in that the boys had hockey at 8:15 am and 9:15 am and all the hockey moms agreed that while we had “a million things to do, we really should take a nap” (note: Kyle got the 8:15 kid up, fed, and to the rink while I “rested my eyes” in bed).  I managed to check five of those million things off the list by lunchtime, and so I sat down on the couch with a turkey sandwich while Kyle turned on the Vikings game.

By the end of the first quarter (and my turkey sandwich), the Colts were, predictably, up 17-0 and the Vikings had, predictably, just missed a 4th-and-1 from their own 31-yard line.  So, unpredictably, I did what I had been saying I was going to do for, oh, seven years and instead of folding laundry or grocery shopping or wrapping presents or sitting there and watching the Vikings as per usual, I told Kyle I was heading upstairs to take a nap.

Here’s the thing: I’m not a great napper (unless falling asleep on the couch at 10:30 pm and then dragging myself to bed an hour later is napping).  The only way I was able to nap before I had children was to put on a TV show I didn’t want to see and then tell myself I absolutely had to watch it.  After my kids were born, my ability to relax deeply enough for nighttime sleep – let alone daytime snoozes – went out the window the first time a piece of dust slowly drifted down from the heavens and gently landed on my sleeping baby and I decided I was the worst mother in the world for not knowing it had happened.

The main reason why I felt compelled to nap this particular Saturday was that I was really, really, really tired.  I was coming off of a cold that had awakened me at least three times a night for the past week, and my youngest had played musical beds the evening before.  Being really, really, really tired historically hadn’t been a good enough reason for me to nap (I don’t want to brag but I own a coffee maker), but I’ve recently become really, really, really aware of how OLLDDD I look – a fact I was talking about with my dermatologist who said, “You know, Amanda, the best thing you can do for your skin is get good sleep.”   And since I’m vain and will do anything for my face, I decided to attempt a nap.

Because I’m OLLDDD, I have a good bed – and so I got snuggled up on my good bed with my good comforter and my good pillows.  I took off my socks because I hate socks, and I left the curtains open because I hate curtains (kidding, it felt like the right thing to do).  Then I closed my eyes and said, “Amanda, go to sleep.”

I did not sleep.

I rolled on my side and looked at the clock.  Fifteen minutes had passed.  I rolled onto my other side and said, “Amanda, go to sleep.”

I did not sleep.

Either another fifteen minutes or 300 hours later, the door opened.  Kyle came in and got under the covers.

“The Vikings are down 33-0 at the half,” he said.  “I’m going to take a nap.”

“Of course they are,” I said, but Kyle didn’t hear it because he was already snoring away.

“Amanda,” I said, “Go to sleep.”  This time my brain answered back, “But where are the kids?”

I nudged Kyle.  “Where are the kids?”  I asked.

“Neighbor’s and basement,” he said, and went back to snoozing.

I lay there for another thirty minutes or 300 hours, intermittently staring at the ceiling or the clock.  Finally, with mere seconds left in my predetermined nap time, I decided to get up.  I rolled over to be annoyed by Kyle and his sleep-ability, and realized he had disappeared into thin air.

I put back on my socks – if I was going to have to go on a nationwide Kyle hunt I had to be dressed for speed – folded back up the comforter, and went downstairs.  On the TV, Vikings fans were celebrating something.  I glanced at the score: 36-36 at the end of the 4^th quarter.

“Holy crap,” I said to no one.  I picked up my phone and called Kyle.  He answered from our garage.

“The Vikings tied the game,” I said to him, and then, “How did you get into the garage?”

“Holy crap,” Kyle said, and then, “I walked.  How do YOU get into the garage?”

 “Why didn’t I hear you get up?”

“Because you were asleep,” Kyle said.

“Holy crap,” I said.

I walked into the bathroom and looked in the mirror.  Still old, but less tired.  I walked back out as the Vikings were gearing up for overtime.  Not wanting to sit there and see them lose when they had come from so far back, and renewed by my unexpected restedness, I decided to go outside and surprise Kyle by shoveling snow off the rink – another one of the million things on my list, although one I had zero intention of ever doing.  Needing a witness to my AWESOME WIFENESS, I got my son out of the basement and made him come out and help.

There were only a few small drifts left when Kyle came outside.

“The Vikings won in overtime,” he said.

“You’re kidding,” I said.  “Did the Colts forfeit or something?”

“Nope,” he said.

“Holy crap!” I said.

“Are you shoveling the rink?”  Kyle asked.

“Yep,” I said, sweeping my arms out like I had just made a game-tying touchdown.

“Holy crap!” he said.

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The photo above was taken by Kyle as proof that I had shoveled the rink (or at least that I was outside in my snowpants).

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I had to read this story twice because 1) it’s really cute, and 2) I love that it’s a news item.  Here’s what it’s about: a group of little old ladies got together to talk about fishing. (Grand Forks Herald)

It’s official: this year’s snowplows are Plowabunga, Scoop Dogg, Big Leplowski, Plow Force One, Austin Plowers, CtrlSaltDelete, Sleetwood Mac, and Blizzard Buster. (Valley News Live)

Grand Forks’ Rydell dealership gave away 12 vehicles to Community Violence Intervention Center (CVIC) clients. (Grand Forks Herald)

Speaking of Grand Forks, principal David Nowatzki and teacher Justin Johnson hung out on the roof after students raised $6,000 to help families in need. (Grand Forks Herald)

Two of Argentina’s finest – Tiziana Huici and Iara Navarro, both student-athletes at Lake Region State College – have created a team of brand-new World Cup fans. (Grand Forks Herald)

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