By Astra Groskaufmanis
Stress is nothing more than a socially acceptable form of mental illness.
~Richard Carlson
I shall not soon forget the Great Hockey Weekend of 2012: three kids, three minor hockey tournaments, one weekend. Not just three kids, three goalies.
To say I was stressed about this weekend would be an understatement. The disaster was foretold months before when my husband announced he was going golfing in Florida on the first weekend in February.
During hockey season?" I screeched, "Who goes golfing during hockey season?" Handling one hockey tournament weekend alongside sibling league hockey is challenging enough. Here I was staring down the trifecta of manic hockey weekends.
"It's so much cheaper to go in February than in May," was his reasoning.
"Oh no," I thought, "not cheaper. Somehow, some way, this will cost you!"
I was in serious need of hockey angels that weekend. The Christmas just prior to the Great Hockey Weekend of 2012, my mother-in-law bemoaned the fact that none of my kids had a hockey tournament near their home in Collingwood. Living in Ottawa, how we managed an entire year without a tournament in or around Toronto was beyond me.
"I sure would love to see them play!" she said.
Well Lordy, Lordy, the Angel of Hockey mercy hath rested her wings in your goal crease, lady! I called my mother-in-law from our home in Ottawa and said, "Have I got the weekend for you!"
I, of course, was thinking only of my in-laws' chauffeur and canteen service, and less of their relationship with their grandchildren, but they didn't need to know that. Because we had three games on Friday, I really needed them to arrive in Ottawa on Thursday, even though doing so posed some inconveniences to them. Whether it was due to my tears or my bribes, they planned their arrival for Thursday evening, those hockey angels of mine.
The wrath of the hockey gods treaded lightly at first, and Game #1 Jersey #1 took place Thursday evening at the arena around the corner from our house, meaning my son could walk home, as he was not willing to keep me company during the first of my two tours of volunteer duty that weekend.
Following my stint as Canteen Queen I quickly headed home to welcome my in-laws, after their six-hour drive, with open arms and cold pizza. Too tired to strategize the weekend events with them, convening in the Situation Room would have to wait until the morning.
Early Friday morning saw me quietly slip the empty wine glass that seemed to have followed me to bed into the dishwasher, fill my tank with gas and head off to Cornwall for Game #2 Jersey #35. Jersey #1 was beyond disappointed that, unlike his two siblings, his schedule for the Great Hockey Weekend of 2012 did not permit him a day off school.
"The hockey gods hath no mercy," I told him. "I should know."
As a consolation prize, I passed him $10 for a rare cafeteria lunch, without admitting the real reason: I had forgotten to make his lunch. I then left a quick note next to the half-empty coffee machine reminding my sleeping in-laws that my friend, and hockey angel, Karen would pick up my daughter for Game #2 Jersey #31 for her late morning game in Nepean. I also left a map and directions, and quickly texted Karen to tell her I was going to collect my daughter... whenever. She understood.
After having lunch in Cornwall with my oldest, I left him in the care of yet another hockey angel for Game #6 Jersey #35, and quickly returned home to Game #4 Jersey #31. I retrieved my daughter from Karen's care, but not before printing off the directions for my in-laws for Game #5 Jersey #1 in Osgoode.
"Hope you're having a nice day!" I said, as I came in the front door and headed out the back door.
Sadly, the game scores barely registered with me throughout this weekend, for I secretly prayed that none of our teams advanced beyond the round robin games. I ignored my husband's texts from Florida looking for updates. I knew my daughter had lost one game and tied another as we headed to the local sports bar for a team dinner. I wasn't sure what my in-laws were eating that night.
When taking my drink order the waitress asked, "Would that be a six-ounce glass or a nine-ounce glass of chardonnay?"
The hockey dad next to me answered on my behalf, "I think she'll just take the bottle," taking the words right out of my mouth!
Oh yes, she too was a hockey angel, that waitress!
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At some point, hockey angel Nancy returned my firstborn to me, Jersey #35, and offered to take him to their afternoon game in Cornwall on Saturday. I mentioned that my in-laws might like to see Game #7 Jersey #35 for they had not yet seen him play, but I soon reconsidered that statement and took her up on her offer. I quickly printed off another map for the in-laws, and offered them the job of spectators, but not chauffeur.
Saturday morning came and I felt I was being pulled to the white light. Only it wasn't the white light, it was another gas station, and I was off to Game #8 Jersey #31 in Nepean. My second tour of volunteer duty followed soon thereafter, for which I dragged my daughter along for the ride. I was happy to share the quiet of late Saturday afternoon raffle table sales with several other hockey moms and our daughters running around the arena selling 50/50 tickets to a slowly emptying arena. We were both soon off to Osgoode to take in Game #9 Jersey #1, who sadly (or thankfully) lost all three games in their tournament.
At this point in the weekend, I'd lost track of my in-laws and my firstborn, Jersey #35, but he had the foresight to text me that they were together somewhere along the 401 between Cornwall and Ottawa, and would be home for dinner.
Oh right. Dinner.
He also confirmed that his team had advanced to the quarter-finals Sunday morning, and we were on for Game #10 Jersey #35.
Now officially out of clean travel mugs, I knew the weekend must be drawing to an end. Game #10 Jersey #35 saw a loss for my firstborn's team, and therein ended the Great Hockey Weekend of 2012. My in-laws, who had been treated to a rare grandkid hockey-fest, were able to catch at least one game of each grandchild, even though all were regrettably in one stretch of thirty-six-hours.
Hockey moms know full well that the hockey community stretches beyond the immediate family, and often grandparents, aunts and uncles are among the spectators (or are called upon for angel duty).
With post-hockey latte in one hand and a basket of dirty laundry in the other, I felt as relaxed as I could with ninety percent of my weekend "to-do" list still to do.
I looked at the dogs and shared a happy thought out loud with them: "We made it!" This thought was quickly followed by another, not-so-happy thought....
"Oh no! Did anyone feed you guys this weekend?"
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