Guy time

After a week of feeling discombobulated, sleep deprived and basically like a zombie with an aversion to eating brains (surely there is gluten in brains), all because of daylight savings time, I survived. 

My reward was Saturday and some quality guy time. 

I knew it the minute I woke up Saturday morning: this was going to be an epic day, a good day. The birds were chirping. The sun was up. The coffee was on. Nobody beat me to the shower. The Carpenter made me a hot breakfast while I paid the bills (and I even budgeted to pay those bills). This day was already better than Christmas. 

It kept getting better too. At noon, there as a televised rugby match between Ireland and Wales. I know what you’re thinking and yes, you’re right. Watching big, rough, strong men brutalizing each other without the benefit of helmets or other safety equipment for the sake of capturing a white oval-shaped ball appeals to my delicate nature. Yes it does. You have no idea just how much it does. 

But this wasn’t about me. This game was about my son. He actually asked me to watch the game with him. That’s right. I was invited. I would cancel anything to accept that invitation. 

I am grateful that I have two very different kids. They give me balance. I get my musical theatre and movie fix with my teenage daughter, and my sports and rock ‘n’ roll fix with my son. While my daughter evokes my creativity, humour and all the great elements of femininity, my son’s wit and intelligence keep me on my game. Our shared appreciation for irony, trivial facts and non-awkward silences makes him a grounding force in my life. As much as I need girl time, there is something very sacred for me about guy time. 

Last year, we sent our son to Wales and England with his rugby team. It was the trip of a lifetime. He had the opportunity to watch Wales in their home stadium. Ever since, Wales has been one of his top teams and this is unquestionably his sport. I’m learning the rules and learning to adjust to the fact that rugby is a rough sport. I feel like it’s wrong to like rugby, but I do like it. I like the culture around it too. Sometimes I can even watch with my eyes open. 

With Wales taking home the win, it was time for my son and I to head to the big city for my sport of choice, lacrosse. Through a generous friend, we scored some seats to see the Toronto Rock at the Scotiabank Arena. I have been counting down the days to this game, my first of the season. I was all decked out in my Rock gear. Superstitions were in full play. 

It felt good to get out of town for a bit. My son and I walked around the city, anonymous in the sea of faces. Just us two. Perfect.

I’m grateful for a son who indulges my love of lacrosse and never questions it. He laughs at my enthusiasm. We discuss calls. We cheer. We roll our eyes at the armchair coaches in the cheap seats. 

But the best part is our ability to sit in comfortable silence and focus on the game. In the moment. The Rock won. That was a bonus. 

Rugby in the morning. Lacrosse at night. Long car rides with classic rock on the stereo. 

Guy time. Just what I needed.

WriteOut of Her Mind