Kiddo #2 turned 3 two weekends ago. He’s big enough that I call him Baby Thor
which, minus the beard, is pretty much what he looks like. Yeah. He’s big and blond and has a great smile.
My brother called in the months preceding his birthday with
the following statement:
Brother: You gotta get Kiddo #2 on skates this fall.
Me: Ok.
Brother: No, I mean, you gotta do it. Look at him. He’s
gonna be 6 foot 7 and 260 pounds of muscle. If he learns to skate, he’ll write
his ticket to the NHL.
Me: Ok.
Brother: No, you gotta get him on skates.
Me: I feel like you can’t hear me.
This, by the way, is a pretty typical conversation—I agree
with everything he says and he still feels the need to pitch it to me. Brothers! Ha.
Then, because I clearly needed more convincing, he followed
up with:
Brother: The Mites program where I live is amazing. I mean,
really amazing.
Me: Ok.
Brother: I think you should put him in up here.
Me: Ok.
Brother: No, I mean, just sign him up. I’ll come out and do the one-on-one with him.
Me: Ok.
Brother: No, like, I’ll do it. I’ve stepped back from the
Mites program this year, but I’d come out for Kiddo #2.
Me: Ok.
(see? Totes typical.)
The only caveat was pitching it to Captain Fiscal
Responsibility, AKA my Awesome Husband.
While I was on board, I wasn’t sure it was going to be an easy sell to
drive an hour to where my brother lives, just for Kiddo #2 to learn to skate;
it’s not like we don’t have 5 arenas offering the same lessons, just without my
brother. The gas alone would be reason
enough to say nay. The hours of driving
on the weekend, plus the cost of getting equipment… You see where the logic leads here, yes?
So I approached Husband while he was eating (which is the
best time to convince him of things).
Me: Hey, so Brother wants to teach Kiddo #2 how to skate.
Husband: Ok.
Me: Well, like, in the Mites program in Brother’s town.
Husband: Ok.
Me: Well, I think it’d be great for Kiddo #2.
Husband: Ok.
Me: Seriously, how cool would it be for Kiddo #2 to learn to
skate from his uncle?
Husband: I said OK.
Let’s do it.
I signed us up online, paid the 4.5 billion dollars for the
various fees and equipment (holy shitballs, seriously?!?) and off we drove to
the first session this Sunday.
Kiddo #2 was super stoked to get on the ice with his hockey
gear and learn to skate with his Uncle.
So excited, in fact, that he talked non-stop about the cool things he
was gonna do once he got his gear on.
For an hour. All the way to the small town where my brother lives, we
heard about how my son is going to “shoot pucks and get scores” and “use his
green stick” and “go really fast” … I won’t go on because while it was super
cute and endearing for us, I’m sure you’re gagging at the sucralose.
Off Husband and Kiddo #2 went to the dressing room while
Kiddo #1 and I hung out in the lobby (mostly because we didn’t bring our
portable space heaters and arctic winter jackets to the arena today).
And the most amazing things happened.
First off, Kiddo #2 spent 90% of the skate time crying.
And wailing.
And refusing to move.
And turtling on the ice from falling down.
And refusing to get up.
And refusing to roll over.
And using his extra-long tongue to try to keep the salty
snot from dripping off his chin.
We
didn’t find out that last part until afterwards though, or I might have puked
all over the arena. In all honesty, the only thing Kiddo #2 DID do was
listen. He listened to every word Uncle
Brother said; he flat out refused to do any of it, but he listened.
Secondly, while Kiddo #2 was doing all that, there was my
brother, with the patience of Job, coaching him. He was literally on the ice on
his belly, showing Kiddo #2 that it’s ok to fall. And he was literally on his back, showing
Kiddo #2 how to get up. He skated away
with his back to Kiddo #2 to see if that might motivate my stubborn son to take
a step or two closer just so Uncle Brother could hear him flat out refuse to
skate.
And every parent around me went on and on about how lucky
that kid was that was working with my brother.
It would’ve been sickening if I wasn’t so dang proud.
I mean, we knew why we’d driven the hour there and back to
have my brother teach Baby Thor how to skate, but man was it cool to hear the
other parents saying the exact same things. I stopped counting how many times I
heard “Oh! There’s Coach! He’s so excellent with the kids!” “He’s the best!” “He
doesn’t care how he looks, he just wants the kids to learn to skate and be
happy.” “He taught my eldest and middle
child. I hope my youngest gets him, too.”
It was
like having Brad Pitt as your brother, and you know Brad Pitt’s brother goes
around saying “Yeah, Brad Pitt is my brother.”
So, I’d say, “Oh, yes, he’s my brother.” And the compliments
would start pouring out like a fire hose.
“He’s here for the kids,” “He’s not interested in politics,” and “He’s
so patient and gets the kids to do stuff that no one else can do.”
It would’ve been sickening if I wasn’t so dang proud.
When the session was done, Uncle Brother (which sounds like a toothless banjo player should pick a few
notes every time it’s said, but you know what I mean) brought Kiddo #2 off the ice
and he and Husband hit the change room.
And when the trio emerged, Uncle Brother was high-fiving my
son, my son was giggling and having a great time. My husband was smiling... it was like an 80's gum commercial without the blonde twins on bikes.
Like, really? Was this the bawling,
snot-faced kid who went in? Miracle of miracles, here was my son loving life,
bragging about how hard Hockey is but that he’d been skating and a good
listener and that next week he’s surely “get some scores” with his green stick.
“Momma, my uncle is AWESOME!” he
shouted.
It would’ve been sickening if I wasn’t so dang proud.
