Rooted, Issue 12

Rowan has begun skating lessons.

I am a little resistant. I mean, yes, a Canadian girl needs to know how to skate. But around here skating is a gateway sport... it leads to harder stuff. Like HOCKEY. Having had my fill of arenas growing up I dread the crazy commitments required of hockey families. Before Rowan was born we agreed hockey was something we would not want to be involved in.

As I say this, Rowan is spinning around the hall with her stick raised over her head, crowing 'he shoots, he scores!' ~ which is an improvement on last winter's pronunciation of that~ 'cootchie sores!'.

Many of the girls play hockey here (and the boys, of course). It is *the* social activity/ sport outlet. Sort of unavoidable. At least if you want your child to grow up with a healthy Northern Ontario identity it is unavoidable.

So, we started skating lessons. After a few skating outings in the last week, Rowan was keen. Until she found out that she would have to give her real name. She balked.
"I'm Pup's Mom. I'm a dog."
"Well, they don't allow dogs on the ice, so let's pretend you are a girl for the hour."
"But my friend is a kitty cat and she skates."
"Well, I think they pretend she is a girl, too."
Silence.
We arrive.
A mournful cry from the back seat:
"I don't WANT to skate if they don't let dogs skate!"
I can admire the sentiment and the need for inter-species justice, but we go anyway.
Halfway through the lesson, the little helper drags Rowan to the boards to meet me. The issue?
They don't know her name and all she will say is "woof".

Out of forty or so kids on the ice, one never rises to her feet on her own power. One is dragged about, slipping to the ground from the arms of one frustrated pre-teen after another. One remains staunchly a dog and not a skater.

Yep.

Maybe we don't have to worry about hockey after all.
But we really should look into obedience classes.