Monday, July 20, 2015

How the Zamboni made me cry



When you have four kiddos, you spend a lot of time at practice. Football practice, fencing practice, baseball practice, swim practice. There is a lot of driving and sitting on the mama's part. I have spent more time on a bleacher than Derrick Rose of the Chicago Bulls.



It is where I have met other moms who went on to become my dearest friends. It is where I could read entire chapters of a book without interruption. Things slow down and get a bit relaxed. Unfortunately for me, it is also where I have made some of my most monumental social faux pas. Take baseball for instance. I am sitting in the stands, chatting with the ladies around me, when I notice my son. He is the catcher and has been doing a pretty good job, but seems distracted. So, in my infinite wisdom, I decide he needs some advice from me. I call out to him, "Hey, Bubba! Quit goofing off and start focusing on your job." Reagan stands up, turns around, and takes off his mask.
Not my boy.
Lo and behold, it was the son of the incredibly quiet lady sitting next to me. 
Score one for Cindy.
But, let's move on, shall we?

 Being a fan of full disclosure, I must tell you,I have always loved hockey practice. There is something about hockey that speaks to me. Maybe it is because you get to bundle up in blankets to watch it. Maybe it is because it was the very first practice I ever went to as a mommy. I can't really say, except, I still love it.


My boys played hockey the whole time we lived in Colorado. And all was good in the world.


Then we moved to Austin. Great for Tex-Mex, football, and two-stepping. But ice hockey? Not so much. We tried finding a league that was a good fit, but it just didn't work out. Life went on, of course, but I knew how much my oldest missed the ice.


Then, an unforeseen thing happened. We moved to New Jersey. They play ice hockey in New Jersey. They play a lot of hockey in Jersey. As in, they love ice hockey like we love Blue Bell.

So, guess what happened today? This happened. 6 years, 60 pounds, and at least a foot and a half later, this happened.


Back on the ice. No sweat, piece of cake, like he had played three 20 minute periods only yesterday. As I sat there on that chunk of permafrost they call a bleacher,  I couldn't help but get all choked up.  Yes, he is over 6'5" in those skates. Yes, he is old enough to vote. Yes, he can serve on a jury. But that is not what I see.


Not this either. 


 This is what I see.



 I see a kid with a smile the size of Texas, having the time of his life. Which is why I was doing my best, trying not to blubber in the bleachers. I may or may not have been successful. The fault rests squarely on the Zamboni's shoulders.







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