Saturday, November 28, 2009

Minor League Mommy Moments

I made a penultimate mommy sacrifice last night. I sacrificed a night with a friend scrapping to sit in a freezing arena to watch minor league hockey. Though my knees still ache today, it was worth it.

Let me be very upfront in my sports interest and prowess. I possess neither. Thank God my children have inherited my husband's gross motor skills. I truly am the Bella Swan of calamity on any sports field or arena. (For those un-Twilighted basically it means I am a danger to the public when involved in sports. I'm long on enthusiasm and way short on talent.)

I became a Steelers fan to stay married. He bleeds black and gold. So, love him, love the Stillers. I only watch them. I only pretend to know things about that one team.

Any other sports rank a really far, far second to a good book, a quiet afternoon, a cup o' Earl Grey tea and my boo boo blankie.

My 6 year old has sometimes struggled to find his place in the world. He's smart. He's adorable. He's got a vocabulary and an attitude and he's not afraid to use both. He's also shy and more than a little self conscious in certain situations. So, when he began to show real interest in hockey, we decided to support it wholeheartedly.

Hence, me sitting with aching knees, freezing my keister off watching a minor league hockey game. It's loud. It's fast. It's pain-ful. Truly pain-ful to watch. Here's a few highlights:

  • Shouted from the top row, repeatedly, "Dowgie! That's a great shot! Way to play Dowgie" (insert deep, western PA accent here). I only discovered in the second period the "Shouter" called all the players Dowgie and that every play was good one.

  • Not a mullet in sight. Not a one. Bummer.

  • One of the players was named Couch. To pass the time, I began to nickname all the players after furniture. I started to join in, in my head of course, with the Shouter. "Good play Ottoman! What a pass Settee'! Oh, get that rebound Barcolounger!".

  • Food is w-a-y cheap in our little arena. So I got to eat every period. It wasn't good food. I consumed it with my germophobia suspended. But it was food, nevertheless.
  • It was over in under three hours. Woo Hoo!

My little fella couldn't wait to wear the free t-shirt they handed out as we entered. He watched every play and even joined the Shouter. He was bouncing on his seat when they were in front of us and craning his neck when they were at the other end. He ran down to slap hands to greet the team as they reentered the arena after one of the halftimes, or breaks or whatever. He proudly, quietly and enthusiastically stood in line to get Barcolounger and Daybed to sign his shirt.

There are four years and thirteen days between my sons. I cannot recall life without the both of them. I can't remember, until, it is just the three of us, like at the game. For four years it was just my little guy. We shlepped him everywhere. He knew how to eat in restaurants. He ordered dinosaur meat (steak) at our former favorite restaurant in DC. He knew how to behave at a public event, going to concerts, movies and shows. Our lives are so different and less financed that we don't get to do as much. (That and the baby is crazy. I don't risk him too often in public.)

It was awesome to watch my little/big man in the cold arena. I loved giving and receiving full attention. There were no interruptions. It was 3'ish hours of us.

It was three hours of Minor League Mommy Moments.

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