Comments (0) There he was moving, barely moving, across the ice.
Thirty-six pounds of five-year-old determination.
Goalie pads almost as big as him.
His first ever game,
The first of the season,
Played not in the local house league rink,
But at the big-time minor pro arena downtown.
There he was standing in front of (and underneath) the net,
Leaning forward and focusing and falling down,
Falling down on the puck even,
Once or twice.
So little.
But also.
So big.
The kids were clamouring for dessert and, quite frankly, I didn’t know what I was going to do with them for the rest of the evening. We’ve slipped into a much later summer bedtime and I was on my own as Ed was stuck working late. So I grabbed a buy one, get one free coupon to the Cold Stone Creamery and announced we were heading out for ice cream.
Irene ordered “pink” and Colum ordered chocolate as per usual and I shared a bit from each of them. It is good. Not cheap, but good. Then we got back into the car and I asked how they liked their ice cream.
Colum: “Pice cream!”
Irene: “No, Colum. It’s ice cream. N R E, ice.”
Colum: “That’s not how you spell ice!”
That’s right, my girl. Fake it ’till you make it.
Now I leave you with an attempt at an artsy shot of my rounded silhouette:
32 weeks
She couldn’t push the second half of her frozen yogurt tube up toward the opening.
“Can you do me a favourite, Daddy?” she asked, walking across the backyard.
“Sure, Irene, I can do you a favour. Do you need me to push that up for you?”
She stopped dead in her tracks and looked at him.
“You mean to say favourite.”
* * *
Colum on soccer:
“We used to be the Cruellers,
But now we’re the Poo-lers.
We always used to win every game,
But now we lose.
So we’re the POO-lers!”
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