Peace be With You

I believe that you can tell a great deal about a person from the way they treat animals and children. My paternal grandfather was a tough man to be around at times. Even after he passed away, he requested that there be no memorial service. His final wishes were to be cremated and his ashes spread near the junction of the Clearwater and North Saskatchewan Rivers. This spot is about an hour’s drive from my home in Red Deer and it is on the way to one of my favourite rivers to fish. Every time we cross the river, I smile to myself and think of the day we gathered to fulfill his final wishes.

It was a small contingent. Me, my parents, my aunt and uncle. We met for breakfast in Rocky Mountain House, a small town where my grandfather was stationed during his time with the RCMP. The restaurant is a short drive away from junction of the Clearwater and North Saskatchewan, so we found our spot quickly. It was a gorgeous spring day, but we were not able to access the actual junction of the rivers, so we settled for a spot along the banks of the Clearwater just upstream.

As we said our goodbyes and released his ashes, we heard the voices of two small children. Their dog bounded up to meet us and actually ran right through the recently spread remains of my grandfather. At first, I was taken aback that someone else had intruded on the final memory of a man I admired and learned so much from as a child. My aunt, as usual, was able to make me smile and put things into perspective. We didn’t say anything to the children, returned to our vehicles and came to my place in Red Deer to spend the rest of the afternoon. As we prepared for supper, Auntie Lee laughed to herself then told us how she thought it was fitting that our intimate memorial service had been crashed.

“After all,” she noted, “Dad loved kids and animals. He didn’t like most people, but he always had time for children and animals. I don’t think he would have minded that we had company today.”

I’m inspired to write this by the passing of a person I only saw three or four times a year, but I looked forward to seeing him each time. I didn't know him really well, but honestly felt like I got to know him better each time we came to Nordegg. Brent Young was a figure known by anyone who spent time around the Shunda Creek Hostel or townsite at Nordegg, Alberta. He managed the hostel, was a driving force in the volunteer Fire Department/Search and Rescue, introduced countless people to the wonders of central Alberta and put a smile on the face of everyone he talked to. Brent grew up in Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario, but landed in Nordegg several years ago and chose to stay because "he liked the big back yard." He was full of unforgettable witticisms like "There's not much happening, but it's all going on in Nordegg.”

Brent loved the outdoors and the adventure it brought. He told me that the perfect drink was scotch because it was easy to carry into the backcountry and all you really needed to add was snow. One of his main mantras was “No dramas” and he spent as much time as he could climbing, skiing or just trekking around. He was absolutely selfless and never seemed to be in much of a rush. This summer, I watched him tour my ten year old son around the Nordegg Fire/EMS newest bush rescue vehicle. For at least fifteen minutes, he answered every single question with the same patience and enthusiasm. Brent loved to talk and treated people with dignity. He was a big part of the reason I wrote the following blog last summer. (Nordegg: Reason #3 To Love Central Alberta)

For the past several years, every time I brought a group of children to stay at the Hostel, I looked forward to visiting with Brent. My oldest son loved the hostel so much, he wanted to spend his tenth birthday there. From middle schoolers to Cub groups to my own children, Brent treated the kids with respect and loved sharing his little piece of the world with anyone who found their way to the hostel. Kids loved Brent because he wore knitted hats, spoke with the cadence of a surfer and dished out phrases like “Cool bananas” and "Have a sunshiny day". Even if we weren’t staying at the hostel, I loved seeing him around the community or when we came to the hostel for a hot shower.

Brent died last week in a backcountry skiing accident. It seems fitting because he made his exit doing something he loved to do. I’ve read many stories about the untimely passing of people who love the mountains. Will Gadd has written a couple of columns about people who remind me of Brent. Accidents are an acknowledged risk of anyone who heads into the backcountry. No matter how knowledgeable or skilled you are, nature is more powerful and unpredictable. I’ve often said that if I pass away unexpectedly, I’d want to do so while I was fishing. I honestly never believed that a person I knew and admired would be in this type of situation.

The world lost a beauty last week. Brent truly made the world a better place and people can learn a great deal from the way he respected and loved the outdoors, treated others (particularly children), and animals. He was the full meal deal.

We are heading to the hostel for Cub Camp this weekend and it saddens me deeply to know he won’t be there in person. Shakakan.

Thanks, Mom

I stand outside/This woman's work/This woman's world" - Kate Bush

I'm certain I've said thank you to my mom more times than I can count. I'm equally certain I have never have explained exactly what I'm thankful for. There are several moms in my family and I work with a primarily female staff, most of whom are moms. With any luck, this post will illuminate the respect I have for these ladies and anyone who is blessed with the title of "Mom".

A while ago, I wrote a blog for Father's Day called My Most Important Job. I was able to write it from my heart and speak very clearly about how much it means to be a father. I enjoyed thinking about the lessons in fatherhood I learned from my dad and both of my grandfathers. This post is a bit tougher to put into words. I hope I can do justice to how much I admire and respect moms.

In my line of work, I need to deal with situations that involve speaking to mothers about their children. The bond between a mother and their child(ren) is one of the strongest things I have run into. Even the toughest, most at-risk, troubled children will not betray their mom. Mothers of these troubled kids usually don't give up on their child. Even a mother who says "I don't know what to do with that kid anymore" has deep-rooted affection in their eyes. It's a connection that no father can really understand because we don't carry this child inside of our bodies.

Watching the birth of my children is one of the greatest experiences in my life. It was unbelievable, really, to see a new life begin. One of my favorite movies in university was John Hughes' "She's Having a Baby". In this movie, Kevin Bacon and Elizabeth McGovern play a couple who have a very difficult time bringing a child into the world. The scene where McGovern's character gives birth to their daughter is both gut-wrenching and touching. Kate Bush's "This Woman's Work" provides an emotionally-charged soundtrack to the scene, but I never truly understood it until we rode the emotional roller coaster of becoming parents.

Our first son was born a nearly month early and my wife's labour was extremely quick. At first, we weren't sure it was happening. Within hours we went from being a married couple to being parents, completely responsible for bringing a new child into the world. The birth of our second child was more difficult and happened very close to when it was supposed to, but it was no less amazing. Giving birth is nerve-wracking, difficult, painful, draining, life-changing and ultimately SO rewarding.

My wife is my best friend and the best mom I know. Admittedly, I'm biased, but I get front tow seats to watch what she gives to our children every day. The patience, kindness and soft-heartedness that exist in both my boys is a direct result of their mother's influence. She has given them the gift of music and I so admire her knowledge and ability. My wife's tender spot for animals lives on in both of my kids. Their love for our dog is unconditional and automatic, even when she is poorly behaved. My wife has been sleep deprived for the last eleven years but she is always there for our kids. She clips fingernails, combs hair, changes beds, listens carefully, makes the best lunches and gives huge hugs that smell like love. When I am hard on our kids, she lets me know and provides a balance every child is entitled to. Her influence and my respect for her is impossible to fully describe.

My mother is equally admirable. She is one of the smartest and best-read women I know. Our weekly trips to the Strathcona County Library remain the best memories of my childhood. We would load into the baby blue Chevette and spend an hour or two exploring the wonders of the library. I knew that mom went to the University of Alberta and for as long as I can remember, it seemed like a given that I would also go the U of A one day (in fact, I liked it so much that went there to earn my Bachelor's and Master's degree). My mom was also patient and dedicated. She gave herself completely to a life of working for Safeway and watching her go to work at all hours of the day and rarely missing a day taught me the importance of dedication. Some of my favorite memories as a kid were simple things like going to the library or driving out of town for a hockey practice, game or tournament. Mom did everything she could for me and my sister. The sacrifices my parents made for us to be involved in sports, dress well, attend school and become adults are incredible. It makes me very proud to say that my mom is honest, selfless, creative and talented.

The other moms in my life possess many of the same qualities. The ladies I work with strike a balance between being amazing teachers and fantastic mothers. My mother-in-law has a huge heart and is absolutely there for all of her daughters. This dedication lives on in both of my wife's sisters, who live and breathe for their children. My sister is another wonderful example of how becoming a mom changes everything. She had her first child at a relatively young age and it completely changed her life. I have spent a lot more time with my sister's family over the past year and it is so rewarding to see how much she devotes to her three children.

I don't know if I have done justice to the importance of the moms in my life. I know it is impossible to cover all of the things that moms are. Moms bring softness to a cuddle and strength to a hug. They raise, feed and deliver children to our world. They are equal parts tender and tough. Moms protect and defend their children.

Every child deserves a mom like the moms in my life.

Rites of Spring

Spring is really important when you live in a cold place.

I live in a cold place. Don't get me wrong, there are many things about winter that I really like. Skiing. Hockey. Sledding. Bright blue skies crashing into blinding white fields. Watching my dog bound through snow. Chinooks. Let's just say that I tolerate winter and make the most of it. The things I dislike about winter far outweigh the things I love, but since I try hard to make this blog a positive place, I will spare you a rant.

In central Alberta, there are a few sure signs of spring. They are special to me because they mean that the longer, warmer, gentler days of summer are on their way. Summer has always been extremely important in my life. I have looked forward to at least two months of holidays for as long as I can remember. I chose to spend my life in school, which means that spring means the end of an important cycle for me. School years are cyclical roller coasters of emotion, urgency and commitment. I have always found that no matter what happens throughout a school year, May brings a degree of relief and contentment.

A sure sign of spring is the premature appearance of white legs in public. I wear shorts for most of the summer and I can't wait to throw on a pair of shorts in the spring. Some people certainly push it and wear shorts when they really shouldn't. I went to an Edmonton Oilers game on February 28. It was seriously cold, but we followed a dude wearing a Boston Bruins jersey and shorts into Rexall Place. Too early for me, but as soon as the daily highs reach double digits (Celcius), I can't help myself. Today was the warmest day of the year so far and it was no coincidence that my boys joined me in wearing shorts to school. At the best of times, my legs look like they were borrowed from a furry chicken. When spring arrives, though, they get unveiled.

Birds also tell me that spring is near. As a kid, my favorite book was An Introduction to Ornithology, closely followed by Roger Tory Peterson's Field Guide to Western Birds. The reappearance of geese, swans, raptors and songbirds always lets me know that warmer temperatures must be on the way. We had an unusally high influx of robins in central Alberta this year and it created false expectations throughout the region. When I was eight, a robin built a nest in a spruce tree on our yard and it was just low enough that I could check it every day. That spring, I watched a life cycle unfold from nest construction to the appearance of three baby blue eggs to the first clumsy flights of the young robins. It was magical to me (and I'm pretty sure I was wearing shorts every time I went to check the nest.)

Flowers also tell me that spring is near. We have tulips in our yard that tentatively poke their heads out once the ground warms up. In Alberta, we usually have a May snowstorm that knocks the stuffing out of the first flowers of spring, but I do enjoy looking for them. Last week, on our way home from the final ski trip of the season, we stopped at a small church just west of Morley flats. I love this spot because this church sits in a beautiful foothill location on the banks of the Bow River. I love not only the location, but the style of the history of this church. It is so representative of Alberta's missionary past. We stopped to look around and I was delighted to find crocuses in full bloom. On the acreage where I grew up, the crocuses would usually share their appearance with the robins. It seems odd how a simple flower can lift your spirits, but seeing those crocuses put me in a great frame of mind.

The most telling sign of spring in Alberta, however, is the magical reappearance of people outside. Through the winter, you see some people on the street. Kids playing hockey, the dedicated dog owners, health nuts and postal workers reign supreme once the snow flies. When the weather turns, however, the trails and sidewalks start to get downright crowded. Bikes, rollerblades, skateboards and scooters materialize. Ball diamonds come to life. The streets around soccer fields are lined with cars and the fields are lined with folding lawn chairs. The smell of grilled meat and the sound of lawnmowers fills the air. Recreational vehicles, shop vacs and pressure washers are pulled out of hibernation. There is a collective energy that is hard to explain, but you recognize immediately.

As I thought about this post, I thought of many other signs of spring. Hockey playoffs, flip flops, backyard fires, street cleaning, rabbits that turn from white to brown overnight, floods in Manitoba, my first sunburnt nose of the season, playing rock/paper/scissors to determine who does the spring dog poo pickup, heading out to fish even though I know the fishing won't be great.

I'm calling it, folks. Spring has sprung. What are YOUR rites of spring?

The Mountains in My Life

Every time I have some moment on a seashore, or in the mountains, or sometimes in a quiet forest, I think this is why the environment has to be preserved.
Bill Bradley

One of the greatest legacies of my childhood is my life-long fascination with mountains. I love to look at them, drive through them, climb them and visit them every chance I get. It takes me ninety minutes to drive to the nearest mountain from my home in Red Deer and it seems like they beckon from the moment I see them. On very clear days, I can see the outline of the Rockies as I drive to school. As a boy, our summer vacations involved either camping or fishing. Often, we were fortunate enough camp and fish in the mountains.

Banff, Jasper, Kananaskis, Nordegg, the Crowsnest Pass, Wells Gray, Kokanee Glacier, Kootenay, Yoho, Mount Revelstoke, Mount Robson. The list of places I learned to love starts with these places and could go on and on. The more I think about it, the more I realize how lucky I was to spend my youth visiting and learning about our natural and cultural history. At first, we camped in Vanguard camper that perched on the back of dad's enormous Ford crew cab truck. The windshield of this truck bore multiple green and yellow National Parks annual pass stickers - the ones with the beaver on them. Yearly admission was something like $25 for Canadian residents and we often spent all of dad's holidays camping, fishing, and hiking.

As I grew older, we began to backpack. We would leave my mom and sister behind at the truck and spend a night or two in the backcountry. It was then that I really learned what it meant to be a part of the mountains. For brief moments as we trudged down I path, I would allow myself to see the land the way the first explorers like David Thompson and Mary Schaffer must have seen this land. Our guidebook for all of these trips was Patton and Robinson's Canadian Rockies Trails Guide. I read this book voraciously, repeatedly and constantly. I owe a great deal of my appreciation for the mountains to these trips. As an adult, my best friend would join dad and one of his friend for a extended backcountry trip. These trips were an amazing opportunity to learn, push myself and reconnect.

When I was twelve, dad and I took a canoe trip up Maligne Lake in Jasper. There are two campsites on this lake that can be accessed only from the water. We spent five nights at one of the sites, which is approximately half way up the lake and two bays away from one of the most photographed spots in the Canadian Rockies, Spirit Island (the photo at the top of my post). Boatloads of tourists walk on and photograph this island because there are hourly boat tours to this spot. It took us five hours to paddle to our campsite and another 20 minutes to paddle to Spirit Island. I can only laugh and think of how many Japanese, British and German photo albums or slide carousels we must be in. Every time the tour boat would pass us, modern day voyageurs in a green Coleman canoe, the clicks and flashes would begin. The day we paddled to Spirit Island, we beached the canoe and took some photos. Just as we were about to have our snack, the tour boat pulled up. One British lady asked us if we were hired by the Parks to pose for pictures on the island. After three days of 30 degree weather and no shower, I imagine she thought we might be street folk who needed a few pennies.

As I have grown up, my time in the mountains has extended and changed. I still camp, hike and backpack. My wife introduced me to skiing, which gives me another excuse to visit the mountains every chance I get. Ski trips have added a new dimension to the mountain experience - visiting these fantastic places in the winter! Seeing the mountains blanketed in white is truly amazing and I cannot think of a better way to spend a winter day. Being outside, smelling the pines, riding a chairlift and racing down these hills is completely invigorating. Skiing is a nearly perfect family activity. It is expensive, but how can you put a price on spending an entire day visiting, exercising, and spending time with your spouse, children and friends?

I am writing this post from a hotel on Tunnel Mountain in Banff. When we checked in to our hotel, my wife said exactly what I was thinking for the last 15 minutes of our drive. Somehow, it feels different when you are in the mountains. It's better. You are closer to nature. I come to the mountains to be outdoors. I come here to spend time with the people I care about the most. I come here to exercise and challenge myself whether I'm camping, hiking, backpacking, climbing, canoeing, rafting, fishing, skiing, snowboarding, snowshoeing, tubing, or sledding. The Rockies really are special. They deserve to be protected and appreciated. For years, I really wanted to live a mountain community, and a small part of me still wants to. The more I think about it, though, I'm not sure if they would hold the same sense of wonder and delight if I got to experience them every day. I would never want to take a beautiful place for granted.

I can only hope that my children grow up feeling the same way I do. It could well be one of the greatest gifts I give my children. If we all felt as passionate about our wild places as I do, we wouldn't need laws and parks to protect them.

The Game I Love

Playoff beards. Dropping the flippers. Right skate first. Warm up tunes. Post game snacks and rehydration. Chirping the other team's goalie. Superstitions. Early morning practices. Freezing in the stands or on the bench. Riding the pine. Arena burgers. Going end to end. Road trips!!!

If you have played, watched or coached hockey, I'm sure you know what I mean. How does it get better than hockey? I can really remember the last 35 years of my life. I've been involved with hockey for each of those years. I've been concussed, elated, suspended, protected, selected, responsible, irresponsible. I've been a leader, a prospect, washed up, a coach, a teacher, a parent and a diehard fan. I've spilled buckets of blood and tankers of sweat. Hockey paid for my university education, but it still cost my parents thousands of dollars. It is full of paradoxes but it is oh, so perfect in so many ways.

With the possible exception of my family and fishing, nothing gets me more excited than hockey. The speed, the violence and the skill of the game set it apart from every other sport. Skating is not natural for the vast majority of people in the world. Anyone can throw, hit, or kick a ball. Very few can execute a pivot from forwards to backwards, throw a head fake and crank a tight turn on skates. Even fewer can pull off a toe drag at top speed, freeze the d-man and snap it over the goalie's shoulder. Fewer still can stack the pads, flash leather for a glove save and stretch a butterfly while doing the splits. Hockey is special. It is Canada's little secret that only a few people around the world really understand. Hockey is to sport what The Tragically Hip is to music.

I spent the past weekend watching the western Canadian Junior B hockey championship tournament, the Keystone Cup. The host team, the Sherwood Park Knights, is a team I captained and coached. I have many great memories associated with hockey and so many of them involve the Knights. As a good friend of mine pointed out, the young men who play for the Knights have no illusions. They understand what every kid who dreams of playing in the NHL eventually understands. Very few are selected and even fewer make a living in this game. When you play Junior B, you stop playing for yourself and your parents and really start playing for the guys beside you in the dressing room. You play to be around the game and hang out with the team. If you work hard enough, you get a chance to win your league, play in provincials or, if you are really fortunate, play for an even bigger prize like the Keystone Cup.

On Saturday, I volunteered and worked security for the tournament, which meant that I spent my entire day in the Sherwood Park Arena. I watched 5 games between 6 different teams. What struck me was that, no matter where the team was from, the differences were minimal. The language, the energy, the intensity, the look, even the smell of each team was incredibly similar. The players, coaches, fans and volunteers for each team were passionate about hockey. They grew up playing the game and they all knew that this tournament was, for the majority of the players, their last chance to win something big.

My nephew played for the host team like his dad and his uncle. The Knights proved they belonged in the tournament and made it to the gold medal game. The arena was packed and the energy was unbelievable. The host team scored the first goal, but was not able to hold on to the lead. They hit posts, crossbars, and had many chances to even the score. When the buzzer sounded to end the game, the cheers of the winning team were drowned out by the sound of hearts breaking throughout the arena.

When I got to my truck after the game, tears poured out of me like I was attending a memorial service. They weren't tears of sadness, though. They were tears of fierce pride.I was proud that two Alberta teams played in the championship game. I was proud to be a former coach and player. I was proud of the host team and the organizing committee for creating a first class tournament. I was intensely proud of my nephew and his teammates because I have watched many of them play since they took their first uncertain steps on skates. The Knights left nothing in the dressing room and poured their hearts into the game.

More than anything, though, I was proud to know that I am a hockey player. A hockey parent. A hockey coach. A hockey fan. Hockey makes me shout at the television, jump in the air, wake up at 5:30 on a weekend and occupies a great deal of my waking hours regardless of the season. It's the greatest game around and it's a huge part of who I am.

Ode to Puddles

Last week, we returned to school following our Spring Break. I drew outdoor supervision for the first day back, which, as usual, was full of fun. Kids wanted to tell me all about their adventures, friends made a beeline for friends they had not played with for weeks, and parents were extraordinarily happy to send their children back...

By Tuesday, however, the wheels on our happy return began to wobble. A crisis was afoot, for beneath the incredibly popular tire swings, enormous puddles had developed. We faced an incredibly difficult decision.... Do we dare shut down the tire swings until our school's version of the Great Lakes dried up?

As the Vice Principal, I decided that a proactive approach would be best. Instead of bowing down to nature, we would beat it at its own game. I took my class to the playground before recess and explained that only their ingenuity and effort would prevent a minor crisis - the closure of the tire swing!!! My true leaders emerged as we chipped ice, bailed water and moved sand to ensure the tire swings would not be shut down. I was incredibly proud of my class and its leaders for engineering a joyful day of outdoor recess.

If you know me, you will recognize that my tongue has been planted firmly in my cheek for this post. I love my school and the fact that puddles are as big an issue as we face. After all, who can resist the lure of a puddle? Even better, who can resist a FROZEN puddle?

I grew up on an acreage in Alberta's parkland. As a boy, spring held incredible promise and wonder. Only those who have grown up in the Parkland know the smell of spring amongst the poplars. As the snow melts, it releases the musty smell of leaves, smells prairie dwellers recognize from raking leaves in the fall. Spring means potholes in roads and frozen puddles everywhere. A large percentage of families make the trek to Canadian Tire, Macleod's, Saan, Zellers, Superstore, or UFA to purchase rubber boots because last year's pair is simply too snug. The trek is worth it, because, even though these boots are usually worn three or four times, they allow their wearers exclusive access to water resistance.

When you encounter a puddle, several questions rush through your head (unless you are a dog or a child under the age of 8.) How deep is the puddle? How thick is the ice that covers it? Will the water go over my boots? Is it cold? Will I get in trouble for falling in? How far into the puddle can I walk?

I grew up on an acreage next to Alberta's Highway 21. The ditches were deep and filled with water every spring. Like most kids who grow up on acreages or farms, mother nature provided us with built-in entertainment. We did not need a gaming system, PVR or extended cable. Our environment regularly provided us with levels of challenge and excitement. How deep is the puddle? How thick is the ice? How far can I send my little sister on the ice before she breaks through? What do I need to do to keep myself out of trouble on this one? One year, the melting snow next to the highway revealed a mint-condition Playboy magazine featuring Miss Nude Texas. God blessed Texas, indeed!

Last Saturday, I felt myself return to the joys of my childhood when I took our dog for a walk at the edge of town. There was just enough exposed grass and dead leaves to bring back the smell of a gigantic pile of wet leaves. Every step was an adventure. Sometimes, the snow would hold. Other times, I would plunge to the ground in a layer of white snow and dark, dank water. At one point, I walked on an ice shelf that darkened and shot water upwards with every step I took. I couldn't help but be transported back to my youth, cautiously testing the thickness of the ice as I made my way to the bus stop.

I know that some people cannot stand it when their kids come home wet and muddy. To me, though, it is a rite of spring that no Canadian kid should pass up.

The Cookie Fiasco

A bit of background is probably necessary, so here is what you need to know.

First, I am one of four men on a staff of about 30.

Second, I love to cook.

Third, though I love to cook, I have not made many batches of cookies. Until this week....

I'll create this post as a chronological stream of thoughts connected to my recent participation in our staff cookie exchange.

October 27

One of my colleagues sends an e-mail to see how many people are interested in holding a cookie exchange to get a jump start on holiday baking. My initial thought is, "I don't bake cookies and I don't really like cookies". Great idea, but not for me.

October 29

For some reason, I write back to my colleague and let her know that I'm interested in the exchange. My kids love cookies. One time, I even baked peanut butter cookies from a recipe. I've made lots of those Pillsbury cookies. I've even made the "Cookie Dough" cookies. I'm committed to the cookie exchange. Heck, I'm not the only guy in the exchange, either!

Mid November

The date for our cookie exchange is set.There are eleven people involved, which means I need to make 11 dozen cookies. I am excited. I tell my wife. She nods and says, "That's nice honey."

How hard can this be?

Early December

Much to my surprise, the staff room conversation indicates that people have begun baking their cookies. When asked if have started baking yet, I respond with a good-natured laugh. Once again, I can't help but think "How hard can this be?" After all, I've made cookies before.

December 4

It is Saturday and we have a busy day of hockey. I briefly think of the cookie exchange. Maybe I should find that recipe I made once upon a time. Was it on a peanut butter jar or in a magazine? No sweat - I don't think the exchange is for at least a week. Instead of buying cookie ingredients, I head to M & M to buy wings for the hockey coach's "meeting" we are hosting this evening. The cookies can wait - I've got lots of time during the evenings next week.

December 6

It's Monday. The cookie exchange is Wednesday. One of my colleagues asks if I have got my cookies ready yet. I laugh it off and so does she - "Ha ha, Ted, you are such a guy!" Before I leave school today, it actually dawns on me that I don't have much time left. Better find a recipe so I can buy ingredients. Thank goodness for Google! I find a super easy recipe that requires only three ingredients. On our way home from Cubs, I take the boys Superstore. As we walk through the aisles, my eight year old peers over his glasses and says, "Dad, we haven't been in the grocery store with you for a long time." He's right and it takes me forever to find all of the ingredients, so we don't get home until nearly 8:30. I still have to write my sub plans for tomorrow and plan a hockey practice before I get to bed. Oh well - the exchange is Wednesday and I still have another night to bake the cookies. I've got the ingredients, I've got the recipe. How hard can this be? My boys love cookies and will help me out tomorrow night, since my wife is working a night shift and won't be around to supervise.

December 7

It's Tuesday. The day before the exchange...

5:30 a.m. - Wake up. We have an early morning hockey practice today.

8:15 a.m. - Get to school, finish my sub plans, get things ready for the day.

9:15 a.m. - Run home, shower, change for my meeting, head to Central Office for the day.

3:30 p.m. - Stop by school on my way home from the meeting. Things are looking up - it's really quiet in the school, so I can head home. Maybe I can get a couple of batches of cookies made before I head to hockey tonight. Both kids have practice.

6:30 p.m. - On our way home from hockey practice, I pick up some "Winter Ale". It's the festive season, so I figure should have the beer to match. Besides, I usually have a couple while I'm cooking, so how can baking be any different? Better hustle - the Oilers game starts at 7:30 and I want to make sure I get the first 3 dozen cookies in the oven before the game starts. If I play it, I should be able to get all of the cookies baked over the course of the hockey game.

7:30 - Both boys are home from hockey. With their help, I should be able to get this taken care of. The hockey game has started, so I put the boys to work unwrapping Hershey Kisses. They take care of this quickly and want to help mixing the cookie batter. Finish beer #1.

7:49 - The first two dozen cookies go in the oven and the third dozen go on my wife's fancy stoneware Pampered Chef cookie sheet. Watch out, cookie world, I'm ready! Finish beer #2.

8:05 - The first two batches come out of the oven and I realize I'm not sure what to do next. how long should they cool before I take them off the cookie sheets? I really need to keep going.

8:10 - The first period of the Oilers game ends and I'm still mixing cookie dough. I rush a bit and don't make exact measurements on the next batch. Oh well, they are just cookies. Finish beer #3. In hindsight, maybe that is why I didn't pay as much attention...

8:15 - I realize that 11 dozen cookies is going to take up a lot of counter space. They won't all fit on the fancy cookie cooling rack. I ask for help from my cookie elves, but they are sound asleep thanks to our early mornings and hockey practices.

8:20 - The stoneware sheet comes out of the over and these cookies look different. Hmmmm. I let them cool for a longer time

8:34 - The fourth and fifth dozen cookies go in the oven. To save time, I don't clean the cookie sheets off completely. Between the darn stoneware batch, not letting the cookies coollong enought and "quality control" tastings, I have less than 3 dozen cookies ready to go.

8:50 -The fourth and fifth dozen don't come off the cookie sheets as well as I would like, so I completely clean them off. Once again, I "man follow" the recipe measurements.

9:15 - The "man follow" recipe batch go in the oven. In the interest of time, I decide to leave them in for just 10 minutes. Look in my beer box. Only 2 left. Hmmm.

9:25 - This batch of cookies looks different, somehow. Hmmm. Better let them cool.

9:30 - It's getting late. I still haven't watched any of the Oilers game. My cookie elves are sound asleep. My lovely wife phones about three minutes after I start trying to remove this batch from the oven. It's not going well. I'm not using good language. I haven't watched a minute of the Oiler's game and they are losing 2-0. Why couldn't we have a chicken wing exchange???? At least I know how to make wings!

9:31 - The Oilers tie the game. I'm washing the cookie sheets again. I know it's getting late, but I can't help it and I have to watch the Oiler game. No problem - it's not even close to midnight yet.

9:45 - The next batch of cookies goes in the oven. I'm much more careful with this batch of dough - I don't want to run out of ingredients...

10:00 - This batch comes out of the oven. The Oilers game goes into overtime, so I let the cookies cool a bit longer. I'm about half done my cookie commitment. I know because I've counted these cookies over and over. Maybe I can buy the rest of them at Sobey's???

10:30 - The Oilers game went into the longest shootout I have ever seen and the Oilers still found a way to lose. I decide I need to honor my cookie baking commitment. I would much rather be cooking up a batch of wings. I'm good at that... My wife calls me back. I decide I need to take the high road because that is what making a commitment is all about. Beer is gone.

12:00 - The final batch comes out of the oven. I let them cool and go watch tonight's episode of "Glee" on the PVR.

1:00 - The final cookies come off the sheets and get placed in the fancy cookie bags my wife keeps for special occasions. I flop onto my bed, reeking of peanut butter and winter ale.

How hard could it be?

Hard.

But at least my family has 11 dozen different cookies, because I'll never eat them.

What was I thinking??????????