OK, so I’ve never qualified for mom of the year award, but this year, it’s different. Maybe.
We registered the boys for the first time ever, in hockey. Our oldest is going on 10, the youngest just started Grade 1, so he’s only five years behind or so.
Now, I love hockey. I was a member of the Winnipeg Jets Kids Fan Club. I shared Catelli pasta with Dale Hawerchuk. I stood in line for hours to get Paul Henderson’s autograph. And, like everyone else, I hated Keith Tkachuk. Except that I had reason to. When I was going to college, I worked as a waitress to pay for it and the restaurant was located across from the old Winnipeg Arena. Let me tell you, this man was a spoiled, rotten child in or out of skates and I was half-tempted to check him face-first into the grill a few times. Eventually, I just refused to serve him. He vehemently disagreed with my decision and in the post-traumatic stress of losing the Jets, I pinned the blame half on him and half on Gary Bettman.
Anyway, I like hockey. But I’ve never played. I’ve never even dated a Canadian hockey player, which must make me either a rarity, or an immigrant from South America, I don’t know.
Now that I’m officially a hockey mom, I can say with absolutely certainty that all you other hockey parents are totally, completely and 100 per cent insane.
Let me tall you about heartache and the loss of hallway space. Our home has boxes still unpacked from our July move. And now, right in the midst of the chaos, is approximately 568.7 pounds of hockey equipment. Equipment I had no idea even existed. Like a ‘box’.
I always thought it was called a cup, but clearly, that term can only be used in every other sport with exception of hockey. Too embarrassed to ask anyone what the difference was between a cup and a box, I turned to Google, who never laughs at me.
And you know what I learned? In the early 1900s, some genius created an electric jockstrap which claimed to cure insomnia and erectile disfunction. In 1860, men began wearing cups beneath wool swimsuits for the sake of modesty. Fast forward to the glam and big-hair rock bands of the 80s, complete with stuffed, spandex pants to show off the ‘package’, and you will note just how fast society can deteriorate.
Later, while lamenting online about the sheer volume of gear now in my hallway, hockey guru Connie Burton informed me that I require a hockey rack. (No, this is not a medieval torture device, I googled that too.) And although I have to admit I’ve occasionally thought about purchasing a new rack once I was done birthing babies, I can tell you that the hockey variety never crossed my mind.
So, instead of the bookshelves I was planning to buy (in order to get rid of the last of the boxes in the livingroom) my new home accessory will instead be a specialized rack to display sweaty testicle protectors. Great. Love it.
We have successfully showed up for one practise so far, which isn’t bad for a mom who frequently forgot to pick up the youngest from preschool in Maple Creek. But the worst is yet to come.
You’ll never believe this, but there are TWO hockey practises each week. And I have two kids. This means four commitments. And, I expect, a few games thrown in for sport. This is intimidating. I was the mom who couldn’t hack it in boy scouts because I’d lose all the badges before I even thought about duct-taping them on. Uniforms? Ha. Matching socks is an achievement in this household, even on me.
Covering hockey throughout the years, I’ve always been amazed at the grace, speed and coordination of even the youngest, newest players. I lack all three of these qualities and thus, photographing hockey has allowed me to admire even the most basic of skills.
But now, it’s different. The universe has shifted. Now, I have more admiration for the parents of the players. They show up with bags full of organized, labelled gear. They show up on time, makeup flawlessly applied and often, even in a clean truck. These hockey parents sit with one another, at ease, and watch as their children play on ice with razor-sharp blades attached to their feet and they do not worry – they cheer. It’s an amazing thing and now, I want to document these moms and dads who do this, year after year after year. What fortitude! Those Tim Hortons commercials are going to make me cry even more this year, I just know it.
In a small, masochistic way, I’m actually looking forward to this. Every Canadian kid should play hockey, at least for one season and by joining, I’m sort of mandating a break away from work, which I have the freedom now to enjoy. And there have been so many generous people willing to donate extra equipment, without them, I don’t think we could have done it this year. Thank you.
I hope everyone will take time this Remembrance Day to honour veterans, our fallen and those who serve today, home and abroad. Canada is a nation built on courage and conviction and no where are those traits more exemplified than in our military. Thank you.