The Hockey Widower

My wife needed a teammate. And it was time for me to get in the game.

by Steve Russell

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I ran around the house doing 15 things at once, talking to myself as I did them. "Okay, don't forget to take out the garbage. Shovel the snow off the porch. You've got 10 minutes before the rinse cycle is done, then you can whip the load into the dryer. Do wool sweaters shrink?"

I jogged up the stairs. "How do you know when a casserole is overdone? The sitter will be here in 10 minutes. Think she'll notice if it's burnt? Oh, shoot! I forgot to make the dessert for tonight's potluck! Okay, don't panic. How about pudding with mini marshmallows? I don't think the girls have done that one before."

I caught a glimpse of myself in the hall mirror. My hair was a mess. My clothes had stains from trying to put together the casserole. And baby drool. For a moment, my pride took over: What am I doing? I thought. I am a physician! And here I am thinking about making pudding!

Yup, this is my life as a hockey widower.

Putting me first

I'm home alone again. My wife, Elizabeth, is at the ice arena for her women's hockey league game. Yesterday she ran a skills clinic for the local team, after coaching her novice team in the morning. Elizabeth is passionate about hockey. Of course, I love hockey too. There's nothing quite like the feeling of gliding along the ice. Yet while she's spending hours taking slap shots, I'm taking my turn scrubbing petrified raisins off the backseat of the minivan.

If we love our wives as our own bodies, then whatever is good for them is good for us.

And I wouldn't have it any other way.

Some of you guys would say I'm henpecked. You might even call me a wimp. But I'm neither. I'm married. And I'll do what it takes to help Elizabeth be a well-rounded person who isn't just someone's mother or wife.

Do I like cooking macaroni and cheese, scraping pots, and cleaning out the muck in the kitchen drain trap? Not really.

Is it easy? Definitely not.

But will I take it on if it gives my partner a break? You bet.

I didn't learn the value of sacrifice overnight. It took some difficult years of making mistakes and making up. When our first child was a baby, I thought I was the martyr trekking off to work each day while my wife got to stay home nursing the baby in the rocking chair and watching daytime television. I came home exhausted and felt I needed a break. So off I'd go to play hockey with my buddies or spend three evenings a week at rehearsal with the local theater group. Elizabeth's world became confined to the house and baby, with no outlets for fitness, laughter, or adult conversation.

With her universe restricted to the four walls of our house, Elizabeth started to obsess about the cracks in the plaster, the leaky faucet on the kitchen sink, and the rust stains in the bathtub. She developed cabin fever, and resented my free time in the big wide world. The minute I walked in the door she'd unload her frustration with the overwhelming tasks of trying to maintain a household while caring for a new baby. And my lack of assistance with both.

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Originally published in: Marriage Partnership, 2006, Winter, Page 22

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