Bowling balls of the most obnoxious colours, were thunderously slammed onto the lane. The unskilled players waited impatiently as the balls rolled at a snails pace and then gently kissed the pins. Feet kicked in the air, high-fives were dolled out and then the fight began over who was going to use the 16 pound yellow neon ball flecked with glitter.
It was Andrew’s birthday party, a kid who has played hockey with Chunky since they were scared tykes lying on their backs for the entirety of their very first hockey practice. Every year, every sport, they have played on the same team along with Jack, Sam, and Thomas.
Hell hides when these kids get together.
Us moms sat at a far distance from the chaos leaving the dads to deal with the sugared up monsters. We talked about everything and anything just like we normally do; the hockey mom life, strangling the kids, wine. Then someone had said her name and we quickly became silent. It took me out of my body and I suddenly became oblivious to what was going on around me. It’s like taking your hands and putting them over your ears, muffling the noise in the bowling alley.
Jane was 39 years old when she passed away a few weeks ago.
Jane and I met when we caught our sons giving each other crotch shots with their hockey sticks. They were testing their efficacy they claimed. You get to know a lot about a person when your kids are devious assholes on the ice and out of their mom’s reach. Actually, all of our kids are.
They, and us moms, make quite the team.
“Hockey Mom Row”
I have been thinking of Jane a lot. In the middle of the day, she comes to mind quite naturally while I’m washing the floors or sitting with a tea. I hear her laugh and her voice, so distinct from anyone else I know. She wore boots that I envied. Her stupid love of the Red Wings.
I think of her when Shawn kisses me good-bye in the morning.
Waking up in the “little bit-it of the night time when dad goes to work” (a.k.a kid wants to get up at 5:45 am and he does)
Sharing his excitement over a loose tooth.
Yelling at him for being a diva and taking far too long to pick what he wants to wear for the day.
“You’re pretty today,” he tells me when I drop him off at school.
Getting annoyed that Shawn leaves his boxers in the bathroom and his toothbrush on the sink.
Having lunch with him even though it’s only for ten minutes.
A ton of pointless texts from my mom.
Picking up Chunky from school and hearing about the day in the life of a six year old.
Sitting at the table for dinner and yelling at each other over slurping, homework, why football is on Monday nights too.
In the arena with Jane’s husband and Shawn, watching Chunky and Thomas hitting each other with their hockey sticks.
I don’t hear her laugh anymore nor her cheers when he skates as hard as his little legs can.
I don’t hear her but I think of her.
Even though it was for three short years, I am thankful for knowing her.
But I hate that she liked the Red Wings and she fucking knows that.
*All names changed
Still refusing to make a code for the link up: http://summat2thinkon.wordpress.com/2014/10/24/ten-things-of-thankful-71/