Bradley Cooper and Lady Gaga || Oh How I Love You So

Flying Eagles

Stefani

Evie's limp weight clung tightly to my chest, her tiny body cradled close to my breast as she slept.

As a result of the afternoon, she had been reluctantly grasped by hands of sleep, leaving me to keep her just comfortable enough so she would not wake in an upset.

I cradled her head in my hand as it rested on my shoulder, readjusting her green headband, and brushing her brown whispy locks as she slept. I loved that her hair was just the same color as mine when I was little.

I rocked her back and forth gently, running my hand over her back and allowing the sweet scent of her baby shampoo to replace the overwhelming odor of beer, meat, and fried food that pervaded the premises.

I had stepped away from the seats, needing a moment away from the chaos to be with my baby.

It was evident the cold was no deterrent for the tens of thousands who currently packed Met Life Stadium. Clearly no weather was bad enough to miss a game, let alone the Super Bowl. Or as Bradley put it, let alone the Super Bowl when his beloved Philadelphia Eagles were playing.

I can say with most certainty that upon his birth, my sweet husband descended down from heaven with Eagles pride running through his veins.

No Sunday from August to February would be complete without Bradley and my father in matching jerseys shouting at the television set. Though we grew up supporting the New York Giants, over several years of tentative convincing, Bradley had somehow managed to convert all of us into Eagles fans.

Even our girls had become obsessed with football. "What kind of play was that!" Lulu would yell hysterically at the television, her high-pitched voice squeaking as she covered her face in anxiety.

So when the Eagles made it to the Super Bowl, I knew there was no way Bradley would let the family miss it.

Bringing three young kids to a football game was a feet in itself, however, it takes on a completely different dimension when every stranger in the arena knows your name. Although our family frequented crowded venues, there was a stark difference between one of my concerts, and an unfamiliar setting like this.

Our girls were used to the masses, the photographers, and the unceasing attention our family received; however, sometimes it all became too much for them. For they were only children, and they had not chosen this life. A heavy set man with a camera seemed like a giant to a four-year old, or a group of teenagers whispering as we crossed the street could be unnerving to a first grader.

Because of who were were, it was unavoidable; but the frequency that it occurred did not cause the girls to be any less intimidated.

When I was younger, I used to be more at ease and willing to take pictures with people, but ever since we had our children, if they were with us, it just did not seem appropriate. They are still too little to understand why the bearded red-head with the Yankees hat wants Daddy to sign his shirt, or why that group of girls yelling across the terminal wants a picture Mommy.

When they were scared, I could quite literally feel the anxiety stirring up inside me. I would watch their eyes dart around, and start to well at the sight of people coming to take pictures, a little too close for comfort.

Although Bradley had toyed with the idea of bringing the girls to the game, just the thought gave me nightmares. Too many people, and too many possibilities for something to go horribly wrong.

As any mother would, my imagination envisioned everything that could go wrong.

A drunk forty-something year, with a button down flannel, overgrown beard and a beer belly tries to grab Lulu when Bradley isn't looking.