I just did a quick search, and it turns have written before about being the parent of a hockey goalie, but not lately.

If you're curious, this fact remains: of all of my identities -- teacher, reader, runner, writer, minivan driver, etc. -- hockey goalie parent may be my least favorite one. Mac is the hockey goalie, and I am his parent.

What happens when I'm watching is this: First, I try to convince myself up to be normal and calm during the hockey game. This is difficult given my naturally high-strung temperament. I'm like a Border Collie in mundane situations, so you can imagine what I'm like under stress.

Still, sometimes, I can remain calm for an entire period of hockey. It helps if the period lasts fewer than 15 minutes and if there are fewer than ten shots during the period. It also helps if I'm chit-chatting with someone or engaged in texting. But, sometimes, instead of remaining calm, tension starts to paralyze my limbs, filling them as if they were PVC pipes. The pucks start sailing at Mac, and suddenly I'm hyperventilating.

Later, I get up a lot to walk laps of the arena or get a drink or visit the bathroom even though I don't have to go. These are coping strategies, and other parents seem to understand. They understand even though Dan is able to watch the whole games like a normal person. Of course in real life, he's like a Great Dane, a couch dog with boundless objectivity and powers of reason. I'm the Border Collie, remember? The one who needs ten hours of exercise and a shock collar?

My ability to sit still dissipates depending on the frequency of the hockey games. If I have at least 48 hours between games to reset and refuel, there's a good chance I can endure in the stands for another full period of hockey. If it's been, say, a tournament weekend with four games in 36 hours, I'm back to pacing and visiting the concession stand within seconds of the puck drop and with increasing frequency in direct proportion to the number of shots on goal.

Shef started skating lessons yesterday. He's kind of interested in hockey. I'm leery of hockey as a sport choice because at least 85% of the hockey boys I've taught in eight years have been pretty much assholic.

But Dan kept telling me that if I didn't let Shef learn how to skate RIGHT NOW, I would ruin forever any chance he'd ever have of playing on any hockey team in the universe, even the nice ones. So I relented.

Shef is convinced he already knows how to skate because he's seen Ice Princess a few times. He was jumping around on his little rented figure skates the lobby before his lesson, and he and Dan were quoting lines from the movie, like "The toe pick is there for the reason! Use it or no friends over for a week!" And, "Those skates take, like, a minimum of ten days to break in. Everybody knows that." And, "To increase the height of my jump, I'll apply more force with my toe pick."

I thought this was pretty embarrassing, especially when Dan was crossing his arms across his chest and pretending to take off for a salchow. Also when he was watching the real skaters, and saying things like, "She keeps popping her lutz."

"What level are those girls?" Shef asked.

"Junior Pass," we told him simultaneously, and then we laughed because we have no idea if that's actually a real thing.

When Shef lined up with his class (no parents allowed inside the rink), Dan said meaningfully, "Hey, Shef! Skate with your heart, Buddy."

The lesson, which we watched through the glass in the lobby, consisted of moving about ten feet and then practicing sitting down and standing up.

Afterward, the kids were allowed to grab a cookie from the sign-in table. "Did you skate already?" the table lady asked cheerfully.

"YES," Shef told her. "I was totally awesome."