Hockey Mom

Hockey Mom


I never thought I’d see the day. I never thought it could ever happen to me. I can barely even type the words…I think…I think…I might be….turning into…a hockey mom. A stage mom—I could see. Maybe even a pageant mom…but a hockey mom? I never dreamed.

When I found out I was having a boy, I was sure he’d be the kind who wanted me to paint his toenails and brush his hair for a thousand strokes until it was silky and shiny. He’s not that kind of boy. He’s the kind of boy who wrestles his teddies and plays ‘how hard can I smash this household item’. In short, he’s all ‘boy’.

And at one year of age, he already understands Canada’s game. The other day he started using his mini garden shovel to bash around fridge magnets. He throws his hands in the air when he manages to get a magnet through my legs. At first I muttered, “My kid is a frigging athletic wonder.” Then I gasped as I realized, “Oh my God…my kid likes hockey…say it ain’t so.”

All I could picture was years of sitting in wooden stands shivering as I reacquaint myself with trying to eat rink fries with mittens on—a sport in and of itself. Then I found out I was having ANOTHER boy…and all I could picture was mini sticks in the hall; dents in my walls; stitches in their chins; and nights staying up too late to watch the third period…

This might sound like some parents’ dream come true, but for me, it goes against a promise I made to myself when I was just a wee sassy lass. When I was a little girl, I vowed to hate hockey forevermore because every time my brother had early morning practice, I had to do his God-awful paper route. I don’t know if you know this, but I am a lady of leisure, so a paper route was not my idea of a good time. I would much rather be home on the couch eating Lucky Charms and watching Laurel & Hardy. But somehow, this paper route was non-negotiable.

Every morning my dad would drop me off at the top of the hill on the way to the rink. I’d stand on the side of the road and yell a variety of pathetic things, “Don’t leave me here!” “I’ll be sure to die of hypothermia!” “Don’t you love me?!” “What did I ever do to you?!” Then I’d mutter a few swear words I was working on and start my involuntary labour.

I was not built for a paper route. I was short and small. And I couldn’t do math. Never mind that I skipped the house with the big scary dog and I delivered to the house with the pretty shutters, just because. No matter what, I always had papers left over at the end. So, I did what any resourceful kid would do. I walked a few extra blocks to the local bakery, bought myself a turnover with my cut of the paper route money, and stuffed the extra papers in the garbage can outside the store before beginning my long trek home.

The hockey boycott didn’t last very long though because even though I hated hard labour, I LOVED boys—in particular, Joe Sakic. I loved him so much I stole his rookie card from my brother’s room when he wasn’t looking. I picked that particular card because he didn’t have a helmet on so I could stare at his cute face and lust over him. Little did my brother know the ‘No Boys Allowed’ sign on my bedroom door only applied to him. Joe, on the other hand, was discreetly tucked beneath my pillow. And every night, I took Joe out to practice my kissing skills on him.

More recently, with all this play-offs nonsense going one, I’ve had to re-engage myself in the hockey world. This gives me something else to talk about with my dad other than antiquated parenting advice. My dad’s answer for every parenting problem is, “Have you tried giving him Carnation milk?”

Me:        The Beast doesn’t sleep.

Dad:       Have you tried giving him Carnation milk?

Me:        The Beast has a diaper rash.

Dad:       Have you tried giving him Carnation milk?

Me:        The Beast is teething.

Dad:       Have you tried giving him Carnation milk?

I’m sure when The Beast is 16 and he fails his driving test, my dad will respond, “Have you tried giving him Carnation milk?”

ANYWAY, I love my dad and enjoy his company tremendously, so I decided to start watching the play-offs so we could bond. It took me five minutes into a Habs vs. New York game to re-ignite my hockey flame. Montreal scored an early goal and there I was, robustly cheering my head off like I had been a life-long fan.

Shortly afterwards I found myself dreamily saying to Husband, “We should put a rink in the backyard when our babies are older.”

It’s happening…I’m becoming a ‘you-know-what’ mom.

But I’m going to be strategic about it. Only one kid is going to be allowed to play hockey. The other one needs to keep his early mornings free so he can do his brother’s paper route.




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