It’s summer. We’ve got mosquito bites and, in spite of my best efforts with sunblock, tan lines. We’re eating fresh local strawberries and raspberries. The windows are propped open to allow in what breeze will grace us.
And did I spend the day making popsicles and seeking shade? No, I was washing hockey equipment and making sure that the boys have matching skates, shin pads, and elbow pads for each side of the body; I was in a snit because of a missing neck guard; I was gearing up for the great gear haul.
It’s the first week of summer holidays, and the big boys are spending it at hockey camp. Griffin only just finished his spring league games, which took up both weekend mornings, and now we are into daily ice time. I’ve pretty much gotten over the shock of becoming a hockey mom. I grew up in tropical and desert countries, I am still learning to skate, and I think I finally understand the offside rule. But nothing is quite so disorienting as going from the humid haze of a summer day into the frigid gloom of an ice rink. Part of me rejoices at the boys’ love of hockey, something still so exotically foreign to me. But another part of me resists. To everything there is a season, and surely, there must be an end somewhere to hockey season.