obsession

You know how, no matter what else may be going on in your life, there are certain things that occupy your thoughts on a fairly constant basis. You wake up and think about them, you unload the dishwasher thinking about them, you play trains and make lunches and read Sandra Boynton books (and by the way, Sandra, I want to take this moment to thank you for teaching my children that it's a good idea to exercise before bed...and invite you to my house tomorrow at around 8:00 to convince my four year old that the natural follow-up to jumping jacks and somersaults is of course SLEEP!) and all the time that you're doing those things you're thinking about one or two things.

For me those things happen to be coffee and sugar. Or, when there is no sugar, frozen concentrated orange juice straight from the can. (Seriously, have you tried that? It's like sherbet only way better, like sherbet made from ground up orange zingy zaps...candy? from the 80's? come on, you remember zingy zaps.)

Aidan thinks about pokemon. He walks to school thinking about pokemon, he eats dinner thinking about pokemon and he even talks about pokemon through the bathroom door. Leo thinks about being super: a superhero, a super athlete, a super cool dancer/singer/ninja assassin. And Russell? He thinks about hockey.

You wouldn't know it at first. He wakes up like a normal one and a half year old, quiet and cuddly and wanting to be carried downstairs. He wonders where his daddy is and if he's going to see his 'gappa' (grandpa) today and then, as soon as he sees the front door, he becomes maniacal. He hurls himself at the door yelling "Hockey!" "Hockey!" "Hockey!" "Hockey!"...yeah. It doesn't stop. All through breakfast, "Hockey!" "Hockey!", while we walk the kids to school "Hockey!" "Hockey!" and as soon as we get back to the house he'll leap out of the wagon, grab a hockey stick from the driveway and start whacking away at the ball. There is no reasoning with my child. I can't go inside for a cup of coffee. I can't stop to chat with the neighbours. I can't put my stick down for even a moment or the screaming starts.

"HOCKEY! HOCKEY!"

I can't even describe what he was like at the arena during Leo's hockey practices this past winter. He spent most of his time with eyes glued to the door to the ice, watching like a hawk for any sign of weakness. Whenever the door actually opened, he took off like a shot towards the rink, shrieking and crying if I dared to stop him.

"No! Hockey! Hockey!"

Of course, Kurtis laps it up like frozen orange juice concentrate on a hot day. Not me. Regardless of how cute it is that Russell stops the play every time his stick touches the ball in order to raise his arms above his head and yell

"YAY! HE SCORES!"

I'm still not impressed.

On a recent summer sandal hunting excursion to Kiddie Kobbler (during which I discovered that Aidan is no longer a child in the eyes of shoe sales people but rather an extremely skinny young adult masquerading as a ten year old) I attempted to direct the attention of my sons towards the ballet shoes.

Aidan stared at me blankly and mumbled something about the ability to evolve according to environment and grass types versus fire types. Don't be fooled, it's not science. It's pokemon.

Leo was vaguely intrigued by the mirror next to the ballet display. I thought I had him, until he realized that the shoes in question did not light up or shoot rocket flames out of the back. He then went back to practicing his moves in front of the mirror, a common pastime that involves striking various threatening and mysterious poses at a rate that would rival the best of Madonna's back-up vogue-ers.

Russell, on the other hand, came running right over.

"Mommy" he said.

When I leaned down to his level, he took my face between his hands and stared lovingly into my eyes.

"Go home."

"Hockey!"