That’s it. I throw in the towel. Go ahead and brand me. Label me. I deserve it.
I’m a hockey mom.
There, I’ve said it. I’ve been trying to ignore the warning signs, but I just can’t overlook the mounting evidence:
-The random jersey deposit checks, roster labels, forms and score sheets scattered throughout my house
-The wallpaper on my phone and my computer showcasing my children hugging the Stanley Cup
-The hockey goal horn app on my iPhone
-The trunk of my car, which always seems to be holding somebody’s hockey equipment
-The “Bluehawks” fleece crumpled up on the top shelf of my closet
-Blisters on my hands from scrimmaging on the driveway
-The hockey puck-shaped dents in the side of my car from errant slapshots
-The Youtube favorites list, which includes the Blackhawks Goal Song and the Blackhawks theme song (more than one version)
-The three hockey jerseys crumpled up on the floor of my car
-The case of Gatorade by the back door
-The perpetual dismantled state of my living room due to shinny hockey tournaments
-A piano that uses hockey pucks for balance (rather than casters)
Face it, I’m a goner. You betcha!