The Mother of Adventure

Snacking out of the (Super) bowl

on February 3, 2014

Chicken WingsIn retrospect, it must have been my husband’s biggest nightmare.

On what is arguably the most sacred, manly-man event of the year – the Superbowl – the scene, as seen through his eyes, would have looked something like this:

  • Cooler of various beers – CHECK
  • Three hot, fresh pizzas with various toppings (each one involving meat, of course) – CHECK
  • Pile o’ saucy chicken wings – CHECK
  • Platter of double-baked, bacon-topped potato skins – CHECK
  • Three wives and six children (ranging in age from newborn to nine years) – CHECK

Whaaaaaat…hold on there a second…what the HECK was that last item?? Nooooooooo!!! Say it ain’t so!!

Poor Ian didn’t have much choice. One of his best friends – who was hosting the Superbowl party – wanted to have his newborn son be part of the festivities. The problem being that newborn babies are typically in need of two strategic booby parts – I mean, BODY parts – that dad just can’t provide…which meant mom was invited. And if *one* mom is there, well hey…you might as well invite the others, right?

Suddenly, the party had taken on a whole new direction that the boys didn’t count on. At kick-off, I believe the moms were involved in a fervent discussion about the best methods to use when transitioning a toddler from the crib to a “big kid bed.” At another point in the evening, I believe I was cradling a Strongbow and a newborn, simultaneously. These all must have been strange, new sights for my husband to behold – seeing as I am not the least bit interested in football.

SuperbowlBut it didn’t end there…it got better (for me, anyway!). Early in the evening, there was a flurry of papers and exchanging of cash as the pool was set up. Admittedly unversed at football pools, I sat back and allowed Ian to throw my name in the hat. Occasionally, I’d throw out the odd comment – blatantly based on something one of the guys had just said. “Yeah…you go Lynch! Good work, Skittles!” I wasn’t about to pretend I knew anything about this game – I was in the company of experts, and they could smell a fake from a country mile away.

Perhaps the football gods were smiling on me that night – for once, I kept my opinionated comments about overweight football players to myself (“that guy is faaaat. He shouldn’t be running…he is *so* going to have a heart attack out there!), likely because I was pretty busy trying to decide between a second helping of pizza or potato skins (p.s. I settled for both!). Or maybe it was because I was in synch with the cheesy humour of our loveable host (“Hey, Bruno Mars is doing the half-time show? That means it’ll be outta this world! Har har!”).

For whatever reason – be it the potato skin gods or just sheer, dumb luck – I won the pool! I was pretty thrilled to have bragging rights to all $28 in that ziplock bag, let me tell you…I think the only way to describe me at that point in the night was “drunk with power” (insert maniacal laugh here).

While I might not be the *ideal* Superbowl companion, I think the kids and I took our leave early enough that we might even be invited back next year. And we might even say yes to the invite…provided those potato skins will be coming, too.


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