A day in the life of a hockey players parent can look much like a day in the life of any parent. You rise, navigating a dark hallway lined with mismatched socks and cardboard sticks. You trip over a sleeping kid or two. You wait for your world to wake up, or at least the one beneath your roof.
It is blissfully quiet for a time. And then it is blissfully not.
I suppose a primary difference, for us at least, is that the home in which we live is also a subject in which we play. Throughout any given day, part of the boys’ learning experience is to contribute in ways both manageable and stretching. My 16-year-old son is on breakfast duty whipping up omelettes and waffles while his 40-something-year-old mother pays the bills, helps to empty the night’s dishes, makes the tea.
(This is my own answer to the “How do you do it all?” question every mother loathes to be asked. With a bit of persistence, children make for excellent chefs.)
