It’s 9:30pm. On a Monday night. In the middle of the so-called “Polar Vortex” that seems to be the only subject of interest on all social media at the moment.
My family is snuggled up on the couch watching the BCS Championship game in their jammies while snacking on hot chocolate and the oatmeal raisin cookies I made earlier today. But I am not with them.
No, I am 30 minutes away at an ice hockey rink watching my oldest daughter perfect her slap shot in a scrimmage. Most moms spend their time worrying that their pretty daughters will be checked out by jocks. While my daughter does draw appreciative looks from members of the opposite sex, I am more concerned about her getting hip checked than checked out. (She plays on the boys’ team and weighs, on average, 60 pounds less than the other players.)
Why do I do it? Why do I venture out at this time of night, knowing that we will not be home until nearly 11:00pm on a school night, on the coldest night of the year? What possesses me to make this trek, knowing I will be dragging in the morning (as will my daughter)? Why do I put myself through the worry that my girl will be hurt? I am a hockey mom. It’s part of who I am.
Oh, and that is just about the only time I see this look on her face:
I’d say it’s worth it.