Short Order Hockey Gear/Dinner Combo

Hockey stick becomes a guitar whenever a goal is scored

Hockey stick becomes a guitar whenever a goal is scored

When my three sons were born in less than four years, I was thrown out of my selfish orbit into a world where children’s needs ruled. Many new tasks came along with the children, but many joys too, so I rose to the occasion, and juggled opposing tasks with good humor. The reward for opening up my personal world to others is that I felt like part of something larger than myself.

Another change was I gave up striving for perfection. Three perfect beings were born into my life – formed in nature, and beautiful exactly as they were, on loan to me in trust by divinity. How could I expect perfection in my human endeavours that could rival this?

Short Order Hockey Gear/Dinner Combo

It was a feat to complete all the tasks, and some tasks were yin and others were yang. One adverse pairing was preparing dinner and evil smelling hockey gear simultaneously. And, it came with a critical warning:DON’T mix up the two.

With three hockey players in the house, and multiple games per week, the short order hockey gear combo was a regular on the menu; washing and drying the sweaty gear by game time, and making dinner for five. When I only found out about the game an hour before it started, I was thrown into action.

With “The Flight of The Bumblebee” playing in my head, I zigzagged from washing machine to stove while my husband and sons watched computers and tvs. Their offers of help were refused, as hallways and doorways between kitchen and laundry room needed to be clear of obstructions for what was about to go down.

First, I boiled the potatoes, tore down the stairs, and placed the funky smelling hockey gear in the washer with long-armed tongs. Next, I pulled the soaking gear out of the washer – the water from the “water wicking” fabric gear wicks onto my socks, and the agitator cover that came out with the gear was tethered to it by Velcro leg straps. I replaced the part, but had no time or energy to untangle the gear, so I threw the whole clump in the dryer with a mental note to get it out before it melted.

I ran back upstairs in squishy socks to turn off the stove so the spuds didn’t turn into hockey pucks, then back to the dryer to get the jersey out before it was liquefied. The odor of the hockey bags assaulted my olfactory sense as if I was in the locker room at the rink, and I retaliated with a bottle of cinnamon Febreze sprayed fire extinguisher-style on the bags. Once I changed my socks and scrubbed the biohazard off my hands, we sat down to eat; the family oblivious to the aforementioned back stage activities.

You are “momified” if the impossible has been achieved – the food isn’t noticeably burnt, the jerseys are out of the dryer before they melt, and everything smells yummy!
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