NFL by the Numbers: 63

Sixty-three is the amount of time in minutes that Scott and I feigned cheerfulness and an “I got this” attitude while attending a private bowling party hosted by the Detroit Lions during alumni weekend. (Alumni weekend is basically like an annual homecoming of sorts for retired Lions players; other NFL teams do the same.) The Lions rented out the ever popular Garden Bowl in downtown Detroit for an evening of bowling and great food – and the event itself was a blast. Even though Scott and I aren’t bowlers, we decided to use the event as a night out, which we so desperately needed.

The problem is that we brought the kids, which totally defeated the purpose, and, in short, made the night a royal pain in the you-know-what.

The invitation characterized the event as family-friendly, yes; and I think the organizers wanted to attract the younger set. But by younger, in retrospect, I think they meant retirees like Scott who are under the age of 50 -- or perhaps their offspring who are approaching the teen years; not younger as in those who require diapers and/or pacifiers. But I was five weeks postpartum; and, dammit, I needed an excuse to leave the house. Any excuse. And I had a custom-made Honolulu blue tutu for Kennedy and everything.

Oh, yes. We were going to this party.

I encountered the night’s first speed bump when I realized Kennedy was hungry. I had my hooter hider at the ready, but trying to balance Kennedy on my knee and my backside on a bar stool? I’m a yoga instructor, not a contortionist, so I grabbed my Clorox wipes and headed for the restroom. For the next 15 or so minutes, I sat on the toilet and nursed Kennedy while reading obscure phone numbers and cryptic graffiti, both of which were juxtaposed with sentences like Jesus loves you and To the world you may be one person, but to one person you may be the world.

When Kennedy and I rejoin Scott and Scotty at our table, we find ourselves a stone’s throw away from the right-hand man to this gentleman:

He is Roger Goodell. But he’s not a big deal or anything, though. Mr. Goodell is ONLY the COMMISSIONER of the NFL.

And, what do you know? It is now that Scotty grows tired of being cooped up in the stroller. It’s obvious that he’s trying to make a break for it so he can embarrass us by runing up and down the alley like a wild banshee. So I did the only thing I could: start doling out dum-dum suckers. I just wanted to keep the lid on a potentially explosive situation.

Thankfully, I evaded a Grade A meltdown, but I suffered the consequences in another way. Remember that Fresh Prince of Bel-Air episode when Carlton Banks got high on speed and danced crazily at the prom? Well, after consuming 30 grams of sugar in mere seconds, Scotty became Carlton’s mini-me. (Look at his blurred face in the above photo; he couldn’t even sit still for one second.) I’m literally thanking my lucky stars that one of Scotty’s lollipops didn’t end up sticking to a party-goer's pant leg.

The final highlight of the evening involved my nostrils being accosted by the smell of poop during the car ride home. (Through the process of elimination – pun intended – I knew Scott and I weren’t to blame, so the offender had to be either Thing 1 or Thing 2 in the backseat (and Thing 2 is breastfed, so her poop doesn’t even stink yet).

I’m not going to call the night a total headache. (Cough, cough, but it was a total headache.) I mean, it was awesome reconnecting with Scott’s former teammates and mingling with NFL insiders, but those moments of reprieve were short-lived because it’s kind of hard to carry on an adult conversation when you’re flinging a burp cloth over your shoulder or trying to contain a man child in an umbrella stroller. Oh, sure, Scott and I can laugh about all this now, and I reckon it will become even funnier as time passes. But, to be clear, I’ve learned my lesson.

There ain’t no way in H-E-double-hockey-sticks I’m going through that again...

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