I borrowed my husband’s bowling shirt. It’s not an actual bowling shirt, as in it has a giant letter on the front and represents a beer company from the rear. But a bowling shirt style.
Which is interesting that my husband has such a shirt, because he loathes bowling. Hates it with a passion. He would rather sit in a pit of snakes than bowl.
Yet that’s what he did last Friday. Sort of.
Our homeschool group had staged a field trip at the local bowling alley. Jensen caught wind of this and demanded to be involved.
Think about it.
Jensen. Heavy balls. Slippery floors. Innocent bystanders. Carnage. Lawsuits. Poverty.
Fiddledaddy decided he had better accompany me, the girls, and his creatively mischievous son to the bowling alley.
I walk through the doors of a bowling alley and feel right at home. Because I’m just classy like that. I love everything about it. The shoes, the sound, the cheap pizza, and the bad 80’s music.
Fiddledaddy walks through the doors and he’s already scoping out the number of exits.
My daughters, who share my bowling passion, were just as excited. Emme had even fashioned her own bowling shirt, using a white Hanes t-shirt, and a black magic marker. She wrote “I’m a Bowling Champ” on the front.
Because she plays a mean game of bowling on the Wii.
Which is just like real bowling, everyone knows that. Interestingly, her Wii technique for tennis and bowling are identical,
Causing me a great deal of anxiety every time she took her turn at the end of the aisle.
Cailey’s bowling prowess should have concerned me the most. She had her heart set on a hot pink ball. She didn’t care that it weighed as much as she does, but she wanted the hot pink ball. Because duh, THAT’S HER FAVORITE COLOR.
It was all I could do to get her into the blue and red bowling shoes. Which were not in her favorite color pallate AT ALL.
She stood at the end of the ball return, placed her hand above the air vent, and grabbed her hot pink ball. Then without pausing to line herself up with the pins, she simply SHOT OFF TOWARD THE AISLE, made a wide curve, and came to a screeching stop at the foul line. The ball would then fly out of her hands, land with a loud thud, and then roll at the speed of smell toward the pins.
And she knocked down a good number of them every single time.
Fiddledaddy and Jensen only lasted two frames before calling it a day. After Jensen discovered his daddy would not let him throw all the balls willy nilly, nor would he let him investigate the bathroom, Jensen had enough. And his father was happy to oblige in a hasty retreat.
And Fiddledaddy had the good sense to have brought the other car. He and Jensen headed to McDonalds. To nurse their bruised bowling egos. MAN UP, boys.
The girls were left to duke it out as to who was indeed champion of the bowling alley.
At one point, Emme quipped, “Mom, I think bowling should be an olympic sport,” as she drank her cherry red soda and ate her greasy slice of cheese pizza, while watching her sister, a blur of hot pink, slide across the foul line on her belly.
I nodded in agreement. Thankful that these two little girls were my people.
And that dinner was taken care of for the evening.