I don’t know who to feel more sorry for today…Tom Brady, superhero quarterback to the New England Patriots, or me.

Tough call, really.

On the one hand, Tom is fantastically attractive, a record-breaking golden boy of sports, the boyfriend to a Victoria Secret supermodel, an unflappable leader even in the most tense of football moments, and a new dad. The guy has a thing or two going for him. But his team did just lose the Super Bowl after a perfect, undefeated season. Ouch.

But my Sunday wasn’t so great either.

See, first I was supposed to start my morning at the gym to take part in a highly-anticipated new cardio dance class taught by a young man with an Hispanic-sounding name. Then, I had planned to have coffee with a beloved girlfriend whom I haven’t seen in a couple of months despite the fact that she lives across town. Post-coffee date I was to cruise back home, spend a few quiet hours of solitude with my computer and then, feeling refreshed and accomplished, depart for our annual family Super Bowl party. Once there, I would partake in a hot home-cooked meal and a cold beer and watch the Patriots make history. Quite close to a perfect day really.

But here’s how it actually went down.

At 5:45am I was filling my bathroom with steam to relieve the croupy-sounding cough coming from my feverish little boy. At 8am I was at the drugstore trolling for a new ear thermometer. By 9am, I was at the grocery store for popsicles and Lysol, then at the pediatrician’s office by 11am, and back to the grocery store for a couple of gallons of filtered water for the humidifier at 1pm. I then did approximately 27 loads of laundry, aired out my healthy, yet stir crazy 2-year old daughter in the front yard, pulled a giant fallen limb out of a tree and got my hands covered in sap, sorted the recycling (for the second time this month), snapped continuously at my husband, and then sent him on his way, alone, to watch the Super Bowl.

Hmmpf.

But later, as I sat on the couch in my grumpy, self-pitying state, I watched Tom Brady play. I studied his face as the game came down to the final minutes, and then the final seconds as the Giants held the lead. My heart was racing. I was thinking of the pressure of all that perfection. And then…the unimaginable. There was no miracle comeback, and the New York Giants were storming the field. The Patriots, and Tom, had actually lost. Holy Moly.

For a few more minutes, I watched the reporters on the field and the ecstatic faces of the Giants’ players. Then I went to bed.

Tom was supposed to win the Super Bowl. He didn’t.

I was supposed to have a perfectly lovely day. I didn’t.

But when Tom Brady woke up this morning, he had to face a slew of sports writers, reporters, analysts and fans picking apart his every move.

I only had to face the mountain of laundry that I have yet to put away.

So, Tom, just so you know, here’s what I would say to my sweet little croupy-cough son were he to grow up to be a sports hero like you, facing the day you are having.

You’re still young. You’re still fabulous. You’re still ridiculously talented.

The rest, trust me, will all come out in the wash.