Some motherly advice for Sidney Crosby: please consider retiring

Dear Sidney:

As I write this letter, I’m in near-shock. It seems like blasphemy to write this.

I wasn't always the biggest hockey fan, but I was quickly drawn to the game by your spectacular play.

I've often felt the warm glow of pride in watching you, as not only one of our country’s greatest exports and a preternaturally talented hockey player, but as simply a good, decent boy (now a man, I suppose, though it’s so hard to think of you as anything but “The Kid”).

And I was as disappointed as anyone to see you hurt yet again, after months of effort and rehabilitation and struggles to get back on the ice after you were severely concussed last January. Maybe even more so than most.

Maybe this is the “mom” coming out in me. But as a mom — and secondly, a fan — this is becoming too hard to watch, Sid, and so, I have to offer some motherly advice.

Those images of you from last year, the ever-triumphant Kid, lying crumpled and motionless on the ice, are too much to bear.

I don’t want to see another horrifying head shot that ends your career and robs you of future successes or even worse, your life. Your presence on the ice, while still dazzling, is also incredibly nerve-wracking.

Although you’re only seven years younger than me (!), I've always felt a certain maternal pride in watching—and cheering—your successes.

And there were so many incredible moments: that golden Olympic goal, hoisting the Stanley Cup, the fist pumps, your team jumping all over you in victory, the triumph in your eyes, even your scream, “f--- yeah!” after your first goal came unbelievably quickly after so many months of being sidelined.

What a thrill it has been to watch you, knowing how hard you’ve worked for all of it and what a great example you’ve set as a pro athlete. Your steely focus and unyielding passion is inspirational to everyone.

But in a beautiful Canadian game that has become devastatingly brutal, your newly fragile state has, so unfortunately, changed everything.

As much as I’ve never wanted to say or even think this, I now have to say it: You should seriously consider retiring, Sid.

I’d rather see you walk away with your well-deserved place in hockey history firmly established and a bright future ahead, a future that includes experiencing the very sweetest, albeit different, things life has to offer: spending time with family, finding the love of your life, perhaps starting your own family.

Also, you could pursue a stellar career in the industry, whether in sports broadcasting, or as a coach or even higher-ranking NHL position. You can still use your incredible abilities to make a difference in the game, Sid.

Over the last 11 months, as you carefully took your time to recover from a severe concussion, I wanted only to believe that you would come back, strong as ever. And I held out hope.

Your first game back was exhilarating to watch. I can only imagine the adrenaline rush you experienced. Sadly, it wouldn’t last.

I know this is about much more than fame, money, glory — any of it. It’s about the game of hockey, which has been your life since — well, forever.  I understand how much you love this game, that you live and breathe it. It's in your blood. I can only imagine that the thought of life without playing hockey must, at this moment, be utterly terrifying.

But life goes on, Sid. There’s a full and beautiful life waiting for you outside the rink. Is it really worth putting your health, maybe even your life, on the line every time you lace up your skates?

As much as I — and so many others — wanted to believe that watching you back in action Nov. 21 meant that life in the hockey world would go on as if the last 11 months had never happened, we were wrong.

It took only eight games before your symptoms resurfaced, not only leaving again a serious gap in the game, but leading to quick and rampant speculation that this is the end of the line for you.

This time may not be the end. In however long it takes to you to “feel right” again, you may well end up back in the lineup and there may be more beautiful goals and breathtaking plays to come. But how far will the possibility of the end ever be?

There’s no question the game of hockey won’t be the same without you. But maybe it would take your premature retirement for real change to happen.

The recent increasing brutality of what could be such a compelling game — and the devastating recent spate of injuries such as yours — has for me, largely ruined Canada’s national pastime.

You made hockey so much fun to watch, Sid. But amid the disturbing images of head shots and report after report of brain damage and other horrific injuries, it’s just not fun anymore.

I hope at the very least, as you work on your recovery once again, you ask yourself: is it really worth the risk?

As a mom, I'd have to say it's absolutely not.

 

 

The Night of the Gun — an unlikely parenting story

I recently finished the 2008 memoir, "The Night of the Gun," by New York Times media reporter and columnist David Carr, and, once my tears stopped flowing, I realized what an important read it is for any parent.

You might not think Carr's story has all that much to do parenting, but having read it and been moved beyond my wildest expectations, I've come to realize that it perfectly reflects so much about parenting's harsh realities and painful struggles, as well as the heartbreaking mistakes and unequaled joys.

A gritty, compelling read from an equally gritty and compelling man, Carr writes in his inimitable, fluidly poetic style about his life, his addiction to alcohol and drugs, broken relationships, acts of violence and his notable career as an talented journalist who overcame all of these (often self-inflicted) obstacles to eventually land at the prestigious New York Times.

But more than this, he writes as a loving and devoted dad of three, who made many grave errors in judgment along the way — and he doesn't hide from this for a moment.

Carr's parenting journey began when his girlfriend went into premature labour with their twin girls. The pair was smoking crack when her water broke.

The little girls survived their ensuing health problems, but their parents — Carr and his on-again, off-again girlfriend Anna — descended further into the dark pit of addiction, retreating into constant IV drug use, while the twin girls endured a dirty, neglectful household.

The most difficult, yet intensely moving part of Carr's parenting story comes as he describes a late-night trip to a crack house to get his fix.

That cold winter night, he brought his twin baby girls with him, but not into the crack house. He left the babies in the car, parked outside, while he got high inside the house.

He describes his skewed thinking in such a raw and vivid way that it's hard not to feel some empathy, amid the pure horror.

"Anna was out, and I could not bear to leave them home, but I was equally unable to stay put. So here we were, one big, happy family, parked outside the dope house. Then came the junkie math. If I went inside the house, I could get what I needed in 5 minutes, 10 minutes tops. The twins would sleep, dreaming their little baby dreams where their dad is a nice man, where the car rides end at a playground."

Quickly, Carr describes this as his day of reckoning, when he realized he would never again be that man. Some time after, he brought the twins to foster care, where they would thrive while Carr and their mother struggled to stay clean.

The twins would eventually be returned to their mother, who continued to struggle with addiction long after Carr finally got clean.

He writes poignantly about the day he picked up his hungry, thirsty and wet girls from their mother, who was increasingly consumed by drug use, and decided not to bring them back, embarking on a new, six-year journey as a single dad (he referred to himself and his girls as "the power trio") and struggling freelance writer.

However, Carr's struggles — personal, professional and with substance abuse — didn't end there, but I don't want to give it all away, other than to say that his story is remarkable and inspirational, particularly for me, a single parent trying to survive as a freelance journalist, juggling multiple jobs and parenting responsibilities, while reconciling poor life choices.

But you don't have to have walked in Carr's (or my) shoes to appreciate this exquisitely told story, which so well captures the life of a flawed, complicated man and endlessly loving father.

The Night of the Gun is available at the Ottawa Public Library or buy it here: http://www.simonandschuster.com/specials/nightofthegun/

The kindness of strangers (or, the day I nearly lost my mind)

Enduring Ottawa winters without a vehicle isn't exactly easy. But most mornings, I manage to suck it up and endure the 20-minute walk to baby's daycare (and from there, just 20 minutes more to the office). 

However, the last few weeks of bone-chilling temperatures, mounds of heavy, wet snow and seemingly relentless freezing rain have really tested my patience (and blood pressure).

Last Friday morning was especially rough. Most of my walking route to baby's daycare is unplowed. Getting there was a stressful, strenuous walk from hell. 

To top it off, just as I arrived, I discovered that trudging through all the winter muck led to a wheel snapping off my stroller. By the time I discovered it, I was left with half a wheel in my hand, three on the stroller. 

Already sweating, exhausted and furious from my walk, I dragged the stroller backwards for the rest of the way and dropped her off as usual. 

When I picked her up that evening, I really had no idea how the trip home would play out.

The sidewalk/road conditions really hadn't changed, but still, I attempted to make my way home with only three wheels, which was a huge mistake.

I'd barely gotten out of my sitter's driveway before my stroller got completely stuck in the snow. Twisting and turning and struggling and nearly in tears, I was ready to throw myself into the snow in utter despair when a car stopped beside me, and a woman flew out and over to me, insisting that she and her husband drive us home.

I declined politely several times, but she would have none of it. She was a mother too, she said. I didn't want to impose, and told her so repeatedly. But she persisted, and, cold and weary, my pride flew out the window. 

So I grabbed baby and we climbed into the back of the car, while she and her husband folded my stroller and loaded our gear. In about seven minutes, we were home — safe, sound, warm and dry. 

Life as a newly single parent is hard. The simplest of daily tasks can often be exponentially difficult. Add miserable weather conditions to the mix, and well — I thought I was definitely going to lose it that day. But the simple kindness of two strangers made all the difference in the world.

Congrats to a dear friend

My dear friend Kerry MacGregor, it seems, gave birth to her first child at the beginning of January, in France (apparently, at the same hospital where Angelina Jolie had her Cesarean!).

She blogs beautifully about her experience as a first-time mom of a handsome boy. And to think, it all began when Kerry ran away to France for a whirlwind romance with a Frenchman she'd known for just nine days.

You can check out her blog here: http://www.kerrymacgregor.com/ and find out more about an upcoming book detailing her incredibly romantic (and somewhat awkward) story.

Many congrats to you and the professor, Kerry. And get ready, for life will never be the same — it will be so much sweeter.