Dear Fifers

In two days, we will be on our way home after having completed our second hockey season in Scotland. As often happens when you come to the end of any wonderful experience, you start getting sentimental. And that’s what I’m doing now. Looking back fondly on our little Fife life.

It seems like yesterday we arrived here, after what had been a whirlwind off-season. Just two months before, Kevin had been recovering from his second-consecutive season-ending injury. His career may well have been over. He wasn’t a particularly marketable goalie seeing as 1) the timeline of his recovery might not allow him to regain his form before the start of the season and 2) signing him meant bringing along his pregnant wife and their little boy. Would all that extra paperwork be worth it for a player that might not be able to stay injury-free for the entire year? Most recruiters would have said “no”. And I wouldn’t have blamed them. But Stewy wasn’t most recruiters. He saw past Kevin’s injury-record and past the fact that our family situation was more complicated than other potential prospects. I will be forever grateful to him for taking a risk on us, and to the rest of the Flyers management for trusting his judgment. Had it not been for them, we never would have had this extraordinary opportunity.

In two seasons, we’ve been lucky to see so much of what this beautiful country has to offer. From Edinburgh and Stirling to Inverness and The Isle of Skye, from little fishing villages like Crail and Anstruther to bigger seaside towns like St. Andrews and Kirkcaldy, we’ve marveled at the scenery and soaked in the culture. In all our adventures, we’ve driven through more rotaries roundabouts than we will drive through for the rest of our lives in the States. We’ve eaten more toast and consequently more butter than ever before. And we’ve taken more pictures than we could ever afford to develop.

Looking at our lives now, I see little pieces of Scotland everywhere. I love that our backyard is the “garden”, the mail is the “post”, soccer is "football", and Brayden knows chips as “crisps” and fries as “chips”. I don’t have any shame about the fact that I practically eat Scottish butter with a spoon. (Yes. It’s that good.) I’m proud that I now understand about 90% of what Mr. Allan Anderson says, which is a testament to my vastly improved understanding of a thick Scottish accent. And I’m happy that my boys have spent many of their toddler days puddle jumping in tidal pools at the beach, playing in Fife’s pristine parks, and exploring the ruins of Ravenscraig Castle. We are so lucky that so many of our earliest memories as a family-of-four will have Scotland in the backdrop.

Thinking back to what this community has meant to our family, I couldn’t be more grateful. This is the place our youngest son was born. The place where I was welcomed into a group of lovely mothers who, over the course of playdates and playgroup sessions, and the occasional night out, have become wonderful friends. Where we have found lifelong friendships in players and their better halves. The place where my husband’s played in front of his favorite type of home crowd, the big and loud and proud kind. Where he was given tremendous fan support, even when he thought he didn’t deserve it but probably needed it the most.

This hasn’t been the easiest two years for us. Having a new baby so far away from our own families comes with its own set of challenges. Losing my sister last January was the start of what has been a long and painful journey. Through it all, we have been so humbled by the support that's poured in. We are so lucky that hockey brought us here because we would not have been able to do it alone. 

So, to all those who have been there for us in different ways over the course of our time here, I want to say thank you. And to those of you who also happen to be Flyers fans, keep doing what you do. This may not have been the season that you all wanted and deserved. But better seasons will inevitably come, as well as some long-awaited hardware. Until that day, no matter what future seasons hold for us, we will be cheering on the Flyers. And, all the while, you can take pride in having made Fife such a wonderful place for your hockey families to play.

All our love and thanks,

The Regan Family

My Love Affair with Hockey

I didn’t always love Hockey. It only took one pre-adolescent trip-up on double-bladed skates for me to decide I should stick to sports that aren’t played on frozen surfaces. And so my father, a former collegiate player himself, swapped his skates for a softball glove and spent his weekends at track meets instead of hockey games. He wasn’t offended that his three daughters had little interest in his personal sport of preference. On the topic, he only had one request : “Never date a hockey player”.

And so I made it through the first nineteen years of my life with very little understanding of the sport. How many innings(?) were played in a single game… how many players were on a roster… Which hall-of-famers played for which NHL team… That was until, in the fashion of a stereotypical daughter, I found myself at odds with my father’s one wish. I didn’t do it as an intentional act of rebellion, but I started dating a hockey player.

So began my love stories with Kevin in particular and the sport of hockey in general. Falling in love with one was quicker and easier than falling in love with the other. One had wit and charm, blue eyes, and a cute South Boston accent. The other had lots of rules I didn’t understand, a cold venue, and an NHL network that always interfered with my reality TV viewing schedule.

When I started watching Kevin play, I didn’t know much about what I was seeing. The whole experience stressed me out. I’d sit there in the Whittemore Center Arena, clapping nervously when other Wildcats clapped, and just hoping the puck wouldn’t go in the net.

As time went on, however, Kevin’s passion started to rub off on me. Without meaning to, I learned about the game. I soon found myself reading plays as they developed, analyzing the quality of shots made on net, and actually enjoying hockey highlights over breakfast. I knew what systems should look like, and when ref’s made iffy calls. I could match NHL-ers to their teams, recognize different styles of goaltending, and appreciate a good, high-intensity hockey game.

Just when I was starting to think Hockey wasn’t so bad after all, it really upped its game and sent us on all sorts of wonderful adventures. It brought us to Providence where Kev and I spent our engagement in an adorable East Side apartment. Just a few weeks after our honeymoon, it sent us to la bella Italia for two seasons. Next it landed our newly expanded family in Wichita, the land of Sunny Decembers and smoky barbecues. And then, with a second baby on the way, it flew us to beautiful Scotland where we’ve been ever since.

It hasn’t always been perfect, nor would I have expected it to be. Hockey comes with a lot of baggage, literally and figuratively speaking. There is a lot of pressure and very little stability in such a performance-driven career. There are challenges to living away from our families. There is packing. (A LOT of packing.) There are everyday stressors magnified by being in foreign surroundings. But even in the hardships, there are positives. As I watched Kevin rehab from potentially career-ending injuries, I admired his resilience and work ethic. When we needed support we would have found in our families back home, we found it in our Hockey communities. When we struggled to balance his schedule with our graduate programs, parenthood, and marriage… when all we had was each other, we learned how strong we are together.

Maybe it’s just me getting sentimental as the season winds down, but somewhere over the past eleven seasons I fell in love Hockey. I love it for showing me places I never would have seen, introducing me to people I never would have met. For bringing out of Kevin some of his best qualities, the ones I fall in love with every day. For teaching me to be more flexible, inspiring my wanderlust. And for challenging us as a couple in the best possible way.

Now, all that said…. as much as I love Hockey, I will likely be a bit of a stress-case in the stands this weekend, feeling the pressure of a do-or-die playoff series. I’ll be cursing the clock for going too slow if we are ahead and too fast if we are behind. I’ll be sitting on the edge of my seat, cursing my Hockey affection for driving me on the verge of crazy…

love can do that sometimes. 

Lessons of a Tummy Bug

You know it’s going to be a long night when you wake up to your husband asking you to help him determine whether your one-year-old is covered (COVERED!!) in puke or poop. Puke or Poop? Sounds like an awful gameshow category. Baby looks completely exhausted (and rightfully so seeing as its 3am). You check his diaper and, since it’s clear, you know it’s the other end that’s responsible for producing the vile-smelling substance that’s filled his bed and he’s apparently rolled in. You’re weirdly relieved. Is it better to be cleaning vomit than shit from your baby’s neck folds and hair? Probably. The Would-You-Rather game takes on a whole new level when you have kids.

And so the night progressed with more of the same, big brother, joining in the fun shortly after. It was the first time, and likely not the last, that BOTH babies in our house were hit with a tummy bug in the same night. And here were some things I learned from the enlightening experience, one that serves as yet another rite of passage in parenthood…

1.     Do not under any circumstances give your baby a glass of milk following a vomiting episode. Even if it appears to have been an isolated incident. Even if he’s begging you for it “milk. Milk. MILK, MILK!!!”. It WILL come back up. Almost immediately. But not before you’ve cleaned his bed, changed the sheets, and dressed him in a fresh pair of pajamas.

2.     Vomit smells absolutely, positively, repulsive. I had hoped there was some sort of maternal odor immunity that comes with having children, but that is not the case. I am always surprised by how disgusting it is, irrespective of who it comes from. And how that phantom smell persists long after it’s been Lysol-ed away.

3.     You have approximately one hour and twenty-seven minutes before another child in your household is up with the same bug that tormented the first one earlier. You have approximately thirty-two seconds after that “mommmmmmyyyyy” wake-up call has been issued to get that child to the toilet.

4.     It is in these moments that you are most strongly reminded of how single parents are truly the most kick-ass people out there. How do they do THIS?? ALONE?! And so follows my incredible gratitude to my husband for being all-in even when the going gets rough. I see him climbing up the stairs with a third batch of cleaning supplies, comic sound effects bouncing off him, “KAPOW” “KABOOM” “BOING”, like a handsome Calvin-Klein-boxer-brief-wearing superhero. Maybe it’s the fumes from the cleaning products, but I swear he’s as handsome as ever. Mommy goggles I guess. I am such a sucker for seeing my guy being such a good daddy to our boys.

5.     The cuddles you get the next day almost make you forget about the fact that you were up all night scrubbing puke off the floors and rubbing your toddler’s back while he stood over the toilet. You all snuggle on the couch watching Frozen for the millionth time and life isn’t bad at all. This will be the light at the end of the tunnel that I’ll hold onto the next time a stomach virus rolls around.

Don't Laugh, Sarah.

You think your day was hard? Try NOT laughing at some of the shit a toddler says. This be-the-responsible-adult-and-don’t-laugh thing is really difficult. Especially when you are chronically sleep-deprived because things are always funnier when you are tired. The problem with laughing at something your toddler does is that it encourages them to do it again. This is not a secret to toddler parenting, but a fact of human nature: It’s fun being funny. And toddlers are often funniest when their innocent curiosity crosses the line with inappropriateness. They are candid comedians, but, if you're trying to raise conduct-appropriate citizens, you must represent a stone-faced audience. Here are a few instances where it’s been the most difficult and simultaneously most important that I NOT laugh.

1. Toddler is being irrational.
This happens a lot. Take, for instance, when I unwrap a granola bar that’s split in half and Brayden absolutely refuses to eat it because it’s “broken”. Screaming fit ensues because he’s starving. Starving!! And yet, he can’t imagine eating a perfectly good, albeit broken, snack. Or, here's another example: he’s throwing a tantrum because I simply cannot do anything right. I push his seat in too close to the table, then pull it out too far. He wants the yellow cup with blue lid not the red cup with green lid (obviously). He wants his pancakes cut up smaller, but not THAT small (clearly I’m an idiot). And on and on it goes until he ultimately decides he doesn’t want pancakes and eggs at all. Instead he wants the slice of pumpkin bread that I’d offered him at the start of this whole debacle and he’d refused. It’s funny because it’s all so absurd. Is this little person really THIS irrational? Yes. He is. But he's also clearly distraught so laughing would be a cruel response. Look away from that ridiculous but equally adorable pouty face. Leave the room. Give him a hug. Whatever you do, don’t laugh at him. 

2. Toddler reacts unfavorably to having to share his mother.
I want my sons to know I love them both. Equally. And that, though they have to share their mommy and daddy, they get a brother out of the bargain. So, I like to use their bouts of jealousy as learning opportunities. I can’t do that, however, if I’m laughing. Picture this: I am making lunch and a cranky/hungry/i-don’t-know-why-I’m-crying Tyler is gripping to my leg like a spider monkey. Meanwhile, his older brother is having a fit of his own across the kitchen. When I ask him what's wrong, he screams, “that’s MYYYYYYYY leg”. In other words, my right leg, the one Tyler is clinging to, actually belongs to Brayden. Maybe it's the chaos of the minute, but his claiming possession over one of my limbs triggers a giggle. I quickly rein it in. “Actually, Brayden, that is my leg. But if you really must borrow a leg of mine to cry on like your brother, you can use my other one. I have two boys I love and I have two legs.” Learning opportunity seized! Christ help me if I have a third child.

3. Toddler discusses his private parts.
Ugh. The innate fascination a boy has with his penis is truly remarkable. My 14-month old can’t find his nose but he can easily say “pee-pee” and locate what he obviously identifies as a more important body part. I’ve read enough about this to know that it is normal. For the sake of preserving what is a natural and healthy curiosity, it’s best not to scorn their behavior. But you don’t want them running around in public yelling “Look, mommy! There’s a ball in my penis” either. So you just have to develop some matter-of-fact responses. “Yes. I see that.” and “No. You shouldn’t play with them in public”. Or, you might need to practice non-reaction. This is probably a more difficult alternative because when I hear my two-year-old say “Look, mommy! My penis is getting bigger” it’s really hard not to cringe.

4. Toddler uses the potty in a public place. 
There’s a lot of descriptive dialogue that my little guy uses on the toilet. When we are in the privacy of our own home, I am generally unfazed by the exclamatory remarks about the bubbles in his pee or the size, smell, and consistency of his “poopies”. It’s when he’s pooping in public restrooms, something he’s actually quite keen on doing, where my maturity is really put to the test. It’s hard not to laugh knowing there are strangers listening to the whole thing… his grunting, followed closely by a, “That was a BIIIIGGGG splash, mommy!” I can’t fault the kid for anything more than stating a fact. I mean, it WAS a big splash. Should something so big come out of someone so small? I make a mental note to google that later. “That was a stinky poopy, mommy.” Another truth. That woman waiting for the bathroom picked a really bad time for a pee break. I really don’t want to encourage potty-talk so I swallow the yes-this-is-the-story-of-my-life-now laugh that’s stuck in my throat. And it’s not easy because I’m also trying not to breathe.

5. Toddler premeditates assaulting his younger brother with a vegetable. 
You always know when Brayden is up to no good. Just ask, and he will tell you. The other day, I spotted him walking towards the kitchen with a large cucumber in hand. Why he had a cucumber at all, let alone outside of the kitchen is irrelevant, but I'm guessing it has something to do with Tyler helping me "unpack" groceries earlier in the afternoon. The part that really got me was his very matter-of-fact response when I asked him what he was up to. "I'm going to hit Tyler in the head with a cucumber". What did you just say? “I’m going to hit Tyler in the head with a cucumber.” Oh. Ok. Just wanted to make sure I heard you correctly. 

Don’t laugh, Sarah, don’t laugh. 

A Toddler's Lesson on Accountability

No one holds me as accountable for anything as my two-year old does for everything.  

The other day I was getting Brayden ready to go to school. We took one last trip to the bathroom before heading out the door. As he was doing his business, he commented that I needed to clean the toilet. Oh, really, little man. You can eat food off the floor without flinching but can’t pee into a toilet that is a bit less sparkly than it could be. I laughed at his very high standard of bathroom cleanliness and ushered him to the sink to wash his hands. “Please clean the toilet for me, mommy” he pleaded in that sweet little voice he usually reserves for requesting an extra book at bedtime or five more minutes of hockey before dinner. 

“I’ll clean it while you are at school”, I said to appease his concern, as silly and ironic as it seemed. And there it was. An empty promise. In my defense, it was a completely unintentional one. I typically use Brayden-free Friday mornings to do these types of chores because it’s easier to clean toilets and resurface hockey rinks mop floors while only having to keep the potentially dangerous cleaning supplies away from ONE toddler. It just so happens that on this particular Friday, that one toddler took a random morning nap. And this chronically sleep-deprived mother took one too.

Fast forward a couple of hours and it was time for pick-up. Feeling refreshed from a nap and a shower, I applauded myself for successful time management during the morning. Little did I know, I wasn’t deserving of this self-praise. Because the very first thing my darling Brayden asked when he spotted me at the door to his classroom was, “Mommy! Did you clean the toilet?” While his teachers found this hilarious, I was a bit humiliated. I mean, what would my kid’s excitement over a clean toilet imply of my housekeeping? Of this poor child’s living conditions? Not to mention that fact that I hadn’t actually cleaned the toilet… so I was both a keeper of dirty washrooms AND a liar. Ugh. Mommy fail.

On the ride home, I fessed up that I hadn’t gotten around to cleaning the toilet. Fortunately, Brayden was very forgiving. But the whole situation made me think about how loosely I sometimes say I’m going to do things. How the other day, he’d nearly cried when Tyler ripped a page of one of his books and I’d yet to tape it like I promised. How I’d forgotten to get strawberries elsewhere after we saw they were sold out on our last grocery shop. They are harmless things really. But that’s not the point. The point is that follow-through is so incredibly important. I don’t know that I will forever doom my child to issues with accountability if I fail to do those little things I say that I’ll do now. But, what if? I shuddered to think.

I knew what had to be done. The toilet didn’t really need to be cleaned, but I needed to model follow-through. So that’s what I did when Brayden was napping. And guess what happened later that afternoon when he used the sparkly, fresh bathroom…

Did I see flashes of his future, a future full of follow-through… a seven-year old teaching Tyler to tie his shoes to make good on a promise, a teenager replacing the toilet roll like I made him swear he would, a new father taking his own babies to the park like he said he would? Ok, not really. But I did get a very adorable smile and a gracious “Thank you mommy for cleaning the toilet for me!” And that’s more than I need to keep me doing those little things… taping the ripped page of his favorite book, remembering strawberries at the grocery store, cleaning the bathroom... Because those small, seemingly insignificant things actually matter. To one of the people that matters most. 

I married a good one.

Marry someone who can make you laugh. It doesn’t need to be constant fits of rolling on the floor laughter. Little laughs when you need them most are just as important, and maybe even more so. In other words, comedic timing often trumps the intensity of hilarity.

It was one of those days where the boys were being especially difficult. They each wanted different things at different times, and seemed intent on annoying/physically harming one another. I spent the majority of the morning moving from one failed activity to another, wrangling the boys in and out of their carseats, and putting together food that was ultimately getting tossed on the floor. My patience was thinner than I care to admit, I was tired, and I felt defeated. Thankfully, Kevin had just walked in the door. He assessed the situation with a pair of fresh eyes, and must have instantly gauged my distress. He took over the babies and ushered me out the door to run the errands that had been mounting up over the previous few hectic days. I quickly briefed him on what exactly he was walking into, feeling somewhat guilty to be walking out.

All of this transitioning happened routinely, a quick and efficient communication about the afternoon’s division of responsibility. We were a team and this was our plan of attack. I felt relieved just knowing I wasn’t alone. And then to be given a much-needed break too! (Funny how running errands without children in tow qualifies as a break, isn’t it?)

I loved my husband in that moment, as he turned bravely towards the battlefield cries in the kitchen. But I loved him even more when I explained how Tyler had dropped my phone in such a way that the battery was lost under the washer. That was when he handed me his own phone to borrow. And with a playful smile, he said “If any of my girlfriends call, just take a message”. That was all it took. I felt muscles in my face relax that I hadn’t even realized were tense. I took a breath, and I laughed. And it was just what I needed. Humor in the height of chaos, a quick-witted line that reminded me it was all going to be okay, that I had the best possible partner for all this craziness. I think this a lot for a lot of different reasons, but it won’t ever stop being true: I married a good one.

"The Happiness Project"

Last year, Theresa gave me a beautiful journal that reminded her of Stephanie. For a long time, it sat blank on my nightstand. Journaling in the way I imagined it involved writing lengthy, reflective  passages. And that seemed like too much work, too much of a commitment. I wanted to use the journal for something meaningful, but I was feeling uninspired.

A few months later, browsing the shelves of a gift shop bookcase at the Cape, I noticed a journal that went along with a book by the same name: "The Happiness Project". The premise for the journal was simple: Write one sentence a day, every day, for five years. The author suggests developing this habit to compensate for the reality that time goes too fast. And, as much as we think we will remember the little intricacies of each passing day, we won't. Well, not without something that will trigger our memories... a photograph, a souvenir, or, in this case, a sentence.*

I thought about how true her words were. How, since losing my sister, I've struggled to recall specific memories. I know that we shared in so many seemingly trivial interactions and countless little adventures, but the details I long for are lost.  I also thought about how my babies are growing so fast that it's hard to keep up. I know that my days are full of silly little moments, but, by the end of every sleep-deprived week, those moments have blurred together into a general sense of wonderful chaos.

It's ironic, but the small fleeting moments that are hardest to remember are actually the ones that life is about. They're the ones that you enjoy most without realizing it, the ones that you miss most once they are gone.

It was there in that gift shop that I found a purpose for my journal. I couldn't fathom writing nightly essays, but, a sentence? Even at the end of a really long day, I figured that I could manage that!

It's been 8 months since I turned my colorful peacock feather-painted journal into a makeshift "Happiness Project" journal. I don't write every night. And I usually find myself writing a few sentences as opposed to one. But it's worked! Tonight, I flipped back and smiled as little sentences triggered memories of moments that I may have forgotten otherwise. And those moments were gateways to other moments from the same day or the days surrounding it.

I know that I can't go back in time. And I know I can't record my life as it's happening so that I can rewind it ten years down the road. But I CAN write a few sentences here and there so that I can find my memories when I need them. So that I can capture as many of the fleeting moments as possible, and treasure them. Forever.

* If you're interested, here's a link to a blog entry by the author about her one-sentence journaling: http://www.gretchenrubin.com/happiness_project/2007/03/one_of_my_succe/