Snacking out of the (Super) bowl

In 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.

But 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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