football + homework + a problem

It's football season around these parts.  My kid LOOOOOVES him some football.  Which is just great for a whole bunch of reasons:

1. His momma LOOOOOOVES her some football too.
2. I get to make and enforce the rules of the house with football as bait. What do I mean by that?  Well, let's take for example, homework:

Your homework isn't finished? No football.
Your timed reading isn't complete? No football.
Your spelling words aren't written five times each? No football.

And so forth.  It works exceptionally well because it would be close to a life altering tragedy for T to miss football.  So typically by the time I come storming through the door to pull his football laundry from the washer, re-stuff the pads for another practice and clothe him, he's done with his homework for the day and ready to head to practice.  Which still puts dinner at approximately 8 p.m. but that's another story for another day.

BUT. There is always a but, isn't there? 
Sometimes, when the kid has questions about his homework, he'll save them for AFTER football.  Which puts us at about four minutes until bedtime with T whipping out his bag and declaring...."WAIT, I have a problem!"  

And I promptly declare: "To which ONLY I have the answer...muahahaha."  
And then he rolls his eyes.  
He then fetches said "problem" and we do our best to tackle it.  
So far, so good.  

Until last night when said "problem" was too much for even momma to handle.  Now allow me to admit, I was never a math whiz.  I actually was kicked out of my Algebra II class (temporarily) for, the horror of it all, asking too many questions.  So of course, it was a math problem that got me.  

I read the problem, my palms got sweaty, I reread the problem and promptly and calmly asked, "Where's the book?" 
T responds, there is no book.
Okay then, "Where's my phone?"

And then there was a series of banter that went something like this:
T: Who on earth are you going to call and why?
Me: Chew. He has a photographic math memory. Trust me. If anyone can help.  Chewy can help.
T: You're kidding me, right?
Me: Nope.
T: Mom, this is fifth grade math.
Me: Shut it.

And then Chew wasn't home.  But since he is such a fab friend, he heeded my call for an emergency call back and was back on the line within seconds.  And then, after explaining to him our predicament, he didn't even skip a beat.  He also didn't make fun of me at all, which is rare, considering the circumstances. So we got straight to work. I read "the problem."

And then there was a series of banter that went something like this:
Chew: Read that to me again.
Chew: Read that to me one more time.
Chew: Can you re-read that first part to me one more time?
Chew: What was the first sentence again?
*pause* *silence* *pause* *silence*
Chew: Gimme just a second. I need to call you back.

And of course, when he called me back fourteen seconds later, he'd figured out the whole thing.  He also explained it to me, and then explained it to me in a way that I could also explain it to T.  And then he hung up, once again, without making fun of me.

Shortly thereafter, crisis averted, T and I were both in bed.  As we went through our typical goodnight banter: I love you the most! I love you to infinity and beyond.  No, I love YOU the most, and so on, I declared: I love you the most and I win, because I am the oldest and the smartest!  

To which he responded: Oh, you might be the oldest Mom, but Chew is definitely the smartest!