I grew up in a hockey family. My dad played Old Bucks on Friday nights. My brothers played in high school. I watched more Zion (Illinois) ZeeBee's hockey games my sophomore year than my own high school team. I'm loud in the stands -- so loud, in fact, that my dad stopped sitting by me in or around 1993. Last year, my mom bought me an LDC hockey sweatshirt for my birthday. My first one ever. I love it, even though it has my maiden name on it, which was a happy accident on her part, since I've primarily let my maiden name go (another post for another day...).
I needed to blog about what just happened to me. It's significant. Huge. I became a Hockey Mom. When Cory and I were dating, I told him I wanted six boys. A hockey team. It was a running joke for a long time among those who know us. We have three boys, and the middle one is now starting his hockey career.
It's time consuming.
It's expensive. (my estimate, if he plays traveling teams -- by the time he starts high school hockey, we'll have spent between $5,000 on registration fees alone, not including gear or the actual travel expenses. And that's just one kid. If Jack plays, we're going to have to sell our cars and refinance our home. Oy.)
But it's WICKED FUN.
Seriously, watching my little boy on the ice this weekend, my eyes just teared up. He's decent on skates, but there's no way to know what his ability will be. So long as he enjoys playing, I'll spend the time and the money. There is no comparison to sitting on those bleachers, watching my boy handle a stick for the first time. I can't even imagine how it's going to feel when he plays a game.
I am a Hockey Mom. An answered prayer, one I had completely forgotten about. Gratitude.
(Now I just gotta figure out a system to air out hockey gear. Ick.)