January 14, 2008

Hockey, Sugar and Passenger Seat Drivers

The girls experienced their very first live ice hockey game this weekend. When my parents said they had tickets, I had two choices: either suffer alone all night with the girls since Mr. BBM was in Las Vegas for business, or take the girls and brave the crowds in the arena hoping my flexion would be good enough to allow me to sit comfortably. I chose the latter.

When I told the girls where we were going, Big I protested immediately. "No, I don’t want to go!" and Lil C quickly jumped on the negativity train with her sister. I started wondering how in the world I birthed these children, considering I’ve been a hockey fan pretty much since I took my first breath. My Dad just wouldn’t have it any other way. I have evidence to prove it:

You may also remember this little gem, which was taken when I met Rick Tocchet, my favorite hockey player while I was growing up. (Please don’t mention the gambling stuff around me. I still wear my Tocchet jersey proudly; and don’t even think about insulting my perm. Seriously, because I will totally cross check you, bum knee or not.)

Since going to a hockey game wasn’t exciting them, I enticed them with this scenario: either spend the night alone with a grumpy invalid Mommy or get to spend some time with Mom-Mom and Pop-Pop. They chose the game. Smart girls.

The drive to the arena went the way any drive with my Dad in the passenger seat goes:

"Why are you going this way? It will take twice as long!"
"You’re driving too close to the car in front of you. If I was that guy, I’d slam on my brakes."
"What are you listening to? Where did you get your taste in music, if you can call it taste?"
"No, park over THERE!"
"You should have let me drive."

I can usually tolerate my Dad’s non-stop driving insults by going to my special place and ignoring him, and by reminding myself that it was HE who taught me how to drive. I drive EXACTLY like he does. You know, all that "I’m rubber, you’re glue. Anything you say about me bounces back to you" stuff? After the 10th comment though, I felt it necessary to give him a verbal reminder that he was being a real pain in the butt, and that he had been my exclusive driving teacher. That quieted him a bit. I also turned up the music he doesn’t like. That always helps too.

After managing to avoid strangling each other on the drive there, we made our way into the arena. It was only when I reached the very last three stairs that a worker noticed me and told me I should have taken the elevator. Great. Thanks for telling me now buddy. I had no clue there even was an elevator.

We made our way to our seats and I grabbed the one on the end. There’s not an arena on the face of the Earth made with long legs and knee injuries in mind, so I was very thankful that the seats in front of me were empty. They made a nice and very much needed leg rest for me. The only problem with being on the end was that everyone else needed to get in and out past me. Thankfully I had very patient people (who were also good at leaping to or from the row in front to avoid me altogether) when they got tired of me having to straighten and lock my brace before standing up to get out of their way.

The game started and Big I asked about a gazillion questions about what was going on. Lil C looked like she was going to fall asleep. During the first intermission, my parents took the girls out to the concession areas and came back with soft pretzels, ice cream, soda, and a beer for me. (It’s easy to forgive your Dad for his passenger seat driving antics when he brings you a Yuengling.)

Lil C decided she only wanted the pretzel, so I ended up eating her ice cream. I don’t allow the girls to have any soda at all, but there was nothing else to drink besides my beer. Both of the girls were giggling and watching me in disbelief as I allowed them sips of the soda. It only took about 10 minutes for the effects of the soda to kick in. Big I was talking non-stop and Lil C started speaking in what can only be described as tongues.

As if this wasn’t bad enough, my Dad disappeared and brought them back Cotton Candy. I can’t tell you how thankful I was, knowing that we were all spending the night at my parents house and that I wouldn’t have to deal with two very spazzy children on my own. By the time the game was over, the girls had consumed their body weight in sugar. Because of this, I gave my Mom half of my beer. She looked like she needed it considering Lil C sat on her lap almost exclusively the whole night.

"What is this sticky stuff anyway? Yeah, I’m not liking it that much after all. Yeech." FYI, it ended up being spit out in my Mom’s hand.

During the game, a young guy came and sat down beside me with t-shirts. I thought it was odd that some employee was coming to try to sell me a t-shirt during the game. I quickly dropped my skepticism and defensive anti-buying shield, when he announced that we were the "rockin’ row" and were all getting free t-shirts! Not long after, the team mascot "Slapshot" came to visit the girls and that truly made their night.

Despite the sugar rush and mascot visit, by the time the game was nearing its end, Big I was proclaiming her unwavering boredom and dislike of hockey (Seriously, did I take the wrong baby home from the hospital???); and Lil C was shouting "Let’s Go ROYALS!" like an old sugar-hyped pro.

The drive home was pretty much the same as the ride there, except that my Dad’s head almost exploded in the parking lot as we waited for my Mom to strap Lil C in her car seat the right way since my dad had, in his haste, messed the whole thing entirely up. What is it with Pop-Pop’s and car seat confusion?

As each car exited the parking lot ahead of us, my dad upped his estimation on how ridiculously long it was going to take us to get home now. Apparently, for every car that leaves the parking lot prior to yourself, you can add another five infuriating minutes (in theory). My Dad huffed, moaned and groaned and I practiced some deep breathing exercises and explained to him why there was no way I was leaving the parking lot until EVERYONE was safely buckled.

So, add to the list of driving insults and critiques from above, a hasty explanation for how and why someone should drive like a bat out of hell out of the parking lot and you pretty much have my drive home. Next time, I’m putting my Dad in the trunk or on the roof rack.