My life lately has been a mish-mash of mommy things. This isn't much different from the past 6 years, except for the fact that it's been 6 (Holy Moly!) years. I no longer have a baby or a toddler. I have a boy. A real live 6 year old boy! He's growing before my eyes, quite literally. Some times when I pick him up from his dad's house, I hardly recognize the child standing before me.
It's a crazy ride, and so surreal sometimes. I know everything about this little person. I know how he acts when he's tired, I know he love the Calgary Flames because his daddy loves them. I know that he's a worrier just like his mommy. I know he falls asleep in 2 minutes flat, and sometimes talks in his sleep. When he's asleep, I lay beside him and listen to his breathing, trace my finger over his little nose, his rosy cheeks. Man, I am in love with this kid. I know he's not so much into Shrek 4 (but really, who is...I lost interest after Shrek 2...), but he's excited to see Toy Story 3. I know he won't lie to his mommy, ever (or at least until he's a teenager...), and that given the choice of a Moose (a quarter) or a duck (loonie), he'd pick the Moose any day.
And I know he's got a wicked slap shot. A true Canadian boy, he'd rather spend the day playing ball hockey in the street more than anything else. Last weekend, I was the "Goalie" while he whipped (I'm such a girl when it comes to this stuff...whipped...is that the right word? I don't know, but it was effin' fast...) a slap shot right into my left knee. It was a bonding experience as we sat there and watched the bruise form in front of our eyes in 5 minutes or less. Mommy's a little gun shy now, to say the least.
Every Saturday morning at 11:00, I'm at the ball hockey rink with little man while he runs around with 25 other 5-6 year olds. It's truly the cutest thing ever. I'm a hockey mom. A proud hockey mom. I cheer when he scores a goal, although between you and me, he's an awesome defenseman. Two weeks in goal, though, was enough for him (and me...geez that's alotta pressure), "One things for sure, Mommy. If they ask who wants to go in goal, I am NOT putting my hand up again!" The poor little guy who got chosen had to be picked up by the coach twice after he fell and couldn't get up for all the padding he was sporting.
Mr. Ex is the annoying hockey dad. "Hustle Q! Hustle! You gotta hustle!" and then to me, "What's he doing? He can shoot better than that? He knows better. He's not playing his position. He's defense, dammit, not foreward. What's the coach doing? That's not a slap shot. He can do a better slap shot than that. We spend 4 hours a day playing hockey, he's freezing out there. What's he doing? He's zoning out...he's not paying attention!" To which I respond, simply, "Uh...he's five. He's having fun. It's ball hockey. Relax. We should be glad he's running in the right direction." I try not to sit too close to him, because he's just so darn embarrassing. But whatever.
One more reason to stop the clock...he's lost his first tooth. And I wasn't there to see it. He was at his daddy's house. He called me as I was on the skytrain to work, and my heart almost stopped. It was comparable to his first steps or his first hair cut. His first tooth. My baby is growing up. Soon it will be grade one and then high school and then marriage, and big adult smelly feet with hair...oh, his little toes are still so cute. How do I stop the clock? Can I just bottle him up and keep him little forever?