Every year, in the name of peace, quiet and the possibility of having uninterupted sex mental stimulation and physical challenge, we enlist our children into a winter activity or two. Something for them to do to while away the long winter nights and chase the parental crazy feeling far, far away.

Every year, I ask my children which activities they would like to participate in. Indoor soccer? Kung-Fu? Ballet? Jazzercise? Arm-wrestling? (Actually, they don’t have that one. But I’d be all over it like snot on finger if there were.)

Every year, my little lovelies hem and haw about which activities they want to do until I feel I am going to lose my mind and finally I snap and decide to put them into what ever activity starts the quickest, lasts the longest and is the cheapest.

This year, my kids were determined to have a better outcome. They became a united front, each pestering me until they thought I would break.

“Mom, can I go into figure skating?”

“Mom, I really, really want to be a hockey player. Who knows? I may be the next Wayne Gretzky?”

For weeks, I heard nothing but how wonderful it will be if Fric is a figure skater and Frac is an NHL superstar in the making.

Freaking FIGURE SKATING, where it will not only cost me a small fortune, but I have to be up at the crack of dawn four times a week. Before I BLOG. No fucking way. I may never win Mommy of the Year award, but I’d rather sit in front of my computer and whine before I gear up and drag my sleeping daughter to the rink in the morning.

Don’t even get me started on the costs of hockey. A small mortgage is required to cover the equipment costs, signup fees, donations, bingo’s, and gas to shuttle your sweaty, ill-rested child around the province for a chance to skate in a rinky dink arena. All the lovely Tim Horton’s commercials in the world do not make my heart pitter patter and get me excited to about dragging my child to a freezing rink in the middle of butt-fuck no where, with no rest on the weekends, while dealing with the local small town hockey dads. Especially all by myself, while Boo is off chasing the almighty dollar.

I love hockey. It runs through my blood. I should have married Mark Messier. (I love you Boo, but face it. If Marky gave me a second look, I’d kick your ass to the curb and jump on that pony so fast your head would spin. That said, I can’t wait for you to come home…)

Figure skating and hockey. It was official. My children were trying to kill me.

On the way to the sign-up fair, where local officials have conveniently gathered all the local clubs under one roof to make it easier for parents to sign their lives away; I tried my damndest to convince myself I would be a great hockey mom. I’d buy a pretty hat and some funky mittens and look serene while I watched my children skate endlessly on a sheet of ice.

Meanwhile, Fric and Frac chattered on endlessly about how cool it was going to be when they became rich and famous swirling and twirling on ice.

With a huge chip on my shoulder and a bad attitude, I made my way into the fair. Signs of basketball, Guides and music lessons danced before my eyes. Bastards. Mocking me with what I wouldn’t have, I thought to myself as I marched my way to the figure skating line and tried not to give any death looks at the people standing around me.

As I approached the line, I watched as other happy parents signed their children up for Cadets and football. All evening activities. Everything was an evening activity but figure skating and hockey.

Suck it up, Buttercup. This is for the kids. It’s not about you, I thought to myself, over and over again. I was trying to delude myself, really.

Just as I reached the front of the long-assed line, where I had plenty of time to sweat it out and feel miserable about my future while imagining my daughter in a pair of sparkly tights and a tutu, my little lovelies suddenly appeared before me, looking evil.

“Mom, we changed our minds. I want to join Guides and play soccer,” Fric happily piped up.

“Ya, and I want to take martial arts to learn to use num-chucks,” said an excited Frac.

“Are you sure? Because it is okay if you want to dance like a fairy on ice or brutalize little children in the name of hockey. I’ll support your decision and bitch to you every chance I get.” Lie, lie, lie. Good thing nobody had a bible for me to swear on at that moment.

“Nah. We never wanted to join hockey or figure skating. We were just teasing you.”

Joking. Hahahahaha. As soon as I caught my children and they escaped from the headlock I had them trapped in, we signed up for winter activities. Indoor soccer to run the little buggers ragged and Guides and Scouts to teach them how to find their way out of the woods that I plan on dropping them off in. And then speeding away.

I briefly thought of signing Frac up for ballet lessons and with his sister as his dance partner, but I thought better of it as we walked by. These kids of mine are starting to become devious. My little beautiful children. I’m so proud.

Remembering I had almost signed my life and half my savings account away fifteen minutes before, I shook my head to dispel the idea of Frac in a tutu while his father looked on and his sister danced circles around him, on her toes.

Better I acknowledge that the (very cheap) square dancing lessons I wanted the kids to take wasn’t my greatest idea and learn to listen to my children.

Besides, Frac may decide he likes the ballet and the tights and then his father would murder me.

This post is dedicated to all you fine parents out there (including all of my inlaws) who choose to rise at the crack of dawn and drive their children all over hell’s half acre for their kids to pursue their dreams. Thank God it is you and not me.