Being a Hockey Widow

“He Shoots, He Scores!”
Four of the most powerful words on earth.
They have the power not only to turn grown men into little boys, but to turn wives into widows at the push of a button.

Unfortunately for me, I not only have a hockey obsessed husband, my sweet 7 year old son has come down with the disease as well. (I question whether this has anything to do with the fact that his father was watching playoffs whilst I was painfully labouring him?)

What it's like at the Graham house during playoff season:

My TV is no longer for me or Shelby. The timer is set for games on a daily basis. Good bye “Dancing With the Stars”, “American Idol”, or CSI. Even when the game isn’t on, some horrible show like “Pardon the Interruption” or “Off the Record” is. It’s excruciating.

The girls are not allowed in the living room unless we promise to be silent. Isn’t hockey supposed to be a visual game? Why are THEY allowed to yell like mentally deranged apes??

Our dinner table is no longer being used. We have set the TV tables up semi-permanently in the living room. Our children drink from their lucky hockey mugs every meal.

I fully believe Barry would be more attracted to me if I came out in a canary yellow suit, a fruit adorned tie, and a dog named Blue, rather than some sexy lacy lingerie.

My son has to mask his growing love for Boston Bruins right now as they are playing the Canadiens. If you know Barry, you know that he is a member of the Church of Latter Day Habs. So that would mean we would have to put poor Oscar up for adoption. Poor, poor, Oscar. He’s not even allowed to be true to himself!

Oscar has learned what “drinkability” means and has asked me to go get him a “Bud Lite” at snack time.


Behind our couch are two small nets, 2 sticks, street goalie equipment and a ball. During intermissions or non-hockey shows, Barry and Oscar act as their favourite players and hammer the ball at each other, my bay window, my piano, and my picture frames.


I hear chants of “Ole Ole Ole Ole Ole Ole Ole” continuously throughout the day. The sing it when you least expect it, and least want to hear it. It is a most dreaded sound in this house.


I am secretly praying that the Montreal Canadiens get eliminated tonight, so that I get a little relief. If not, someone send help. PLEASE.

What happened to Oscar?

Spring Break started out great. I hate flying so I cried, but the kids liked it.

Rae Ann and Gary were wonderful hosts and we had a great time the first few days. We took in the hockey fall of fame, CN tower and did a little shopping. We had lots of fun with our favorite family and miss them tons already.

A few hours after our arrival at Niagara Falls, Oscar became very ill. The next 36 hours consisted of Oscar puking and diarrea-ing about every 15 minutes. 6 hours after Oscar started vomiting, Shelby also started, although not nearly as much. For two nights, Barry and I were awake the entire time, taking care of our sick children. We did not get to take in the Falls. Shelby got better quite quickly. Oscar did not. He progressively and frighteningly got worse.

By the time we checked out of the hotel, I knew he needed medical attention. We drove back to Hamilton and took him to Urgent Care. They transferred him to the Pediatric Unit at the local hospital where he was listed in severe condition and given immediate IV therapy. It was very scary (I balled my eyes out) to watch my boy deteriorate so fast that day. His dehydration had caused his blood pressure and his heart rate to drop and his kidneys to make too many creatins (whatever that means). He has very little memory of that day until nighttime. He awoke and started asking about hockey scores. That was when we knew he would be okay. The next day, his vitals were good, although he was still battling fever, and not eating. We still don't know what kind of virus caused this. It was certainly not your standard flu.

We had to change our flight to make sure that he was okay to come home. He was released from the hospital on Thursday afternoon and we are now home. He is exhausted, but is doing much better. He is joking around, and eating and drinking lots.

Not only am I never leaving my yard again, I am placing my son in a glass bubble for the next 15 years.
Don't try to stop me.