Fangirl
Or: desperate mother-love in an ice hockey rink
The first time he shuffles onto the ice, I feel a distinct flutter of nerves in my stomach. He’s wobbly on his skates and gripping the metal trainer, the same way an older man might hunch over his walker.
“He’s only been on the ice once before,” I casually mention to one of the coaches. Of course, by that I mean: This is my baby and he’s only five and all these other kids seem so big and confident and he seems so small and scared! Will you please take care of him for me?
The coach nods and smiles, then shuts the door to the skating rink. I am now standing on the outside, looking in through the scarred glass.
A couple years ago our family started watching the Carolina Thunderbirds play, and our boys’ interest in ice hockey was piqued. I poked around online and saw that our city offered a free “learn to play” league, starting at age 5. I asked the big boys if they were interested, and Kyeler was an immediate no.
“I’ll be the mascot,” he told me confidently.
CJ’s first question was, “Will I fall down?”
I wanted to say no, of course not, honey! But that would have been a lie. A bunch of little kids who don’t know how to skate, bumbling around on the ice together? There will probably be blood.
“Yeah, you might fall down,” I told him. “But you’ll learn to get back up again and keep having fun.”
He was in. I signed him up and took him to the skating arena one cold, sunny Saturday in December to get fitted with equipment. Shin guards, elbow guards, neck guard, shoulder pads, knee pads, giant shorts (?), helmet, and gloves. All shoved into a giant black duffel bag smelling of sweat. (Did I mention this equipment was previously used?)
For the first week after we got CJ’s hockey equipment, he slept with it piled in his bed. Every night his small body clutched onto that red-taped hockey stick that had been sawed down to exactly his size. It was kind of cute, but also… kind of unhinged. Maybe it’s just that I couldn’t relate. I have never, in all my life, wanted to sleep with sports equipment in my bed. But my son did, and despite my inability to understand it, it brought me joy to see him so excited.
Fifteen minutes into that first practice, I saw one of the coaches gently take the trainer out of CJ’s hands and replace it with his hockey stick. My heart lurched. But, to my surprise, CJ was fine. Sure, he was always slightly behind the other kids in drills, and it took him awhile to hoist himself back up after a fall, but he was participating and having fun.
At one point I went to the bathroom and came back to see CJ clearly fighting tears. I wondered if he had gotten hurt or embarrassed, but wasn’t able to ask as I stood in the cold arena outside the rink.
Afterwards I asked him why he had looked so upset. “You left,” he told me angrily. “I couldn’t see you.”
“I was just in the bathroom!” I explained. “I was only gone for a few minutes. Remember, I’ll never leave you.”
CJ shook his head adamantly, insisting that he wanted to be able to see me during every practice.
“What if I have to pee?” I asked him.
He looked me dead in the eye. “Hold it.”
I soon learned that ice hockey moms are an intense breed. With over a month of practices under my belt, I feel like I can be so bold as to include myself in that description. We stand outside the rink in the freezing cold, clutching our children’s water bottles in our gloved hands, shouting their names as they skate and fall and skate again.
There is something jarring about realizing that your child—the very same one who made you throw up when he was the size of a raspberry in your belly—is now old enough to skate away from you and hit a puck around with other kids. That one’s mine! I feel like yelling, claiming him with my desperate and boundless mother-love, drawing us back in time to a moment when all he needed was me.
One week I surprised myself by banging on the glass in excitement when CJ scored his first goal. He looked over at me, beaming with pride, as I lost my absolute mind and gave him a wild double thumbs-up. Another mom looked at me and laughed. “You’re such a fangirl!” She said. I beamed at her. I really was.
Last Sunday before practice, CJ and I were doing our usual routine of getting him excessively suited up. Shin guards, elbow guards, neck guard, shoulder pads, knee pads. Jersey, gloves, helmet. Finally I pushed on his small ice skates, their shiny silver blades pressing into my palms.
“Mom,” CJ said in a confidential tone. “If you want, you can go to the bathroom during my practice.”
I laughed and helped him into the rink, his red jersey bright against the ice. The door closed and I was once again on the outside peering in. I saw my son start to play a game of tag with his teammates, immediately falling down when another kid tagged him. I wanted nothing more than to jump into the arena and help him back up, even though I knew he didn’t need me to.
It feels overwhelming to reflect on all the things my kids will have to do without me as they grow. Get back up on skates after a fall. Make friends in kindergarten. Heal from a broken heart. There will be so many areas of their lives where I’m no longer in the arena with them. But you better believe I will be standing on the sidelines, cheering them on until my throat is hoarse, being their biggest fan.
Gah, I’m obsessed with all of this 🥺😍 I lol’d when he looked you dead in the eye and said, “Hold it.” But then he felt safe enough for you to leave!! Ugh, my heart. The whole image of there being scarred glass between you, and you not being able to ask or help. I cannot. What a metaphor for letting go 😩 Well done, CJ and Megan. I’m fangirling you both! And Kyeler the mascot too, obvs.
So sweet and so true! I think I’m mostly *only* on the sidelines these days, but I’m cheering so loud.