Forever Changed

Elliott’s hockey tournament was this past weekend – the entire weekend. His first game took place on Saturday afternoon wherein he and his team, the “Fighting Orange”, took on the gray team for a chance to move on to Sunday’s championship game – whose winner would take first place in the Mite Division.

Somewhere over the course of said weekend, I morphed into something I never thought possible. Much like the sinister affects a full moon has upon its bewitched, the tournaments persuaded an entirely different being to crawl out of this suburban mother’s skin. This weekend, I became a Hockey Mom.

In the past, I have played the role of a soccer mom. I now confess that the responsibilities related thereto are a cake walk. (1) Bring kid, (2) Bring lounger and (3) Bask in the sun. A pat on the back or tousle of hair at the end of a game whose score is not kept would suffice and there was always a trip to the local Cup-N-Cone in store. A Hockey Mom, however, is an entirely different sort of creature. She is an exuberant, thunderous sort of person whose multitasking capabilities have elevated far beyond those of the aforementioned soccer mom whose main gear includes that of a camera and a Diet Coke.

The Hockey Mom shows up to the ice arena adorned with a bag so large one would swear her husband was inside; she walks with a hunch in order to counter-balance the weight from the hockey equipment still left to adhere to her son. With harried focus, she selects her nesting location and gets to work on the young boy. In a blur, she fastens multiple pads to the child. Wearing her leather driving gloves out of necessity, she pulls the skate laces as tightly as her body weight allows her to without first rupturing her spleen. Ignoring the waves of exhaustion, she wipes the perspiration from her forehead and struggles with the icing on this mighty cake – the helmet. She then releases her warrior over to his teammates.

Then it’s on to the Sport Center's bleachers to scout out the perfect spectator spot not only for her, but for the family who is about to arrive. Much like a dog marks its territory, the Hockey Mom creates a girth of her own as she litters the seats around her with coats, purses and programs. To the untrained eye, the Hockey Mom almost appears cordial as she curls back her upper lip and smiles at oncoming prey; announcing that these seats are indeed “Saved”.

She then gets to work on the reminiscent portion of the event. From her camera bag (only slightly smaller than the hockey bag), she fishes out the video camera and still shot digital. Balancing her third coffee of the day in her lap, she rechecks the battery juice and turns on all equipment as they call her firstborn’s name over the loudspeaker. Through teary eyes, she captures his nervous smiling face as he skates into position to face off.

That was when it truly happened. Like magic, I became that person who fits the suburban stereotypes I used to readily poke fun at. I was a Hockey Mom. “Go Fighting Orange!” “Go Elliott!” “Go Bears!” Though I haven’t surveyed the footage from the video camera, I won’t be surprised to find that it jerks, shakes and bounces from floor to ceiling as I jumped to my feet over and over again to cheer for the little warriors. For two days, I kept this behavior up. The Fighting Orange won their Saturday game and dragged their tired little bodies back on Sunday morning where they eventually took 2nd place.

As Elliott accepted his trophy and stood proudly with his team for photographs that evening, I realized that this is what makes us come back for more.

I love being a hockey mom!