For most of October, Judy and I had settled into a comfortable routine with our one remaining hockey boy. We cooked dinner when he was going to be home, made other plans when he wasn’t, and occasionally managed to sneak out for a spontaneous date. It wasn’t a bad arrangement. We had finally figured out how to accommodate a teenager whose communication style leaned heavily toward, “I’m going to do this. Do you mind?” rather than our preferred, “I’d like to do this. Would that be okay?”
There is a difference. One involves asking permission. The other involves announcing a decision and allowing us a brief opportunity to object before he disappears.
We were making it work. Then Halloween arrived, and somebody decided we had become entirely too comfortable.
Through a series of events involving a rare Saturday night off, an OU football game, and circumstances I’m not at liberty to discuss, we suddenly had two additional hockey players moving into our house for the remainder of the season. They had spent the previous two months living with another billet family, and now they were moving again. The boys had some adjusting to do. So did we.
Fortunately, we already knew them from our Friday game-day breakfasts. They knew we could cook, and we knew they were capable of eating. That eliminated two of the more significant uncertainties involved in the arrangement.
Including these two, we’ve now had eight different hockey players living in our house this season. Eight. We’re not quite operating a revolving door, but I’m considering installing one to reduce wear on the hinges.
Cooking for three hockey players isn’t particularly difficult. You just cook more. One box of fettuccine becomes two, and the grocery bill starts looking like we’re provisioning a small military unit. The challenge is learning everyone’s preferences. With one boy, it’s easy to remember what he won’t eat. With three, you’re comparing lists and trying to find something everyone will tolerate. If we’d raised these boys ourselves, we’d have had 18 years to wear down their resistance. Instead, we’re attempting to accomplish the same thing in a few months.
Other billet homes may offer better amenities, fewer rules, or a more entertaining host. We’re hoping to remain competitive in the category of “Consistently Feeding Hockey Players Something Other Than Chicken Nuggets.” I don’t know if the league gives out awards for that, but I’m prepared to submit an application.
The first week also included a medical mystery. Several boys on the team became sick, with competing theories involving the flu, a seafood buffet, and a pepperoni pizza provided by the opposing team. One of our new boys was convinced the pizza was responsible for his miserable bus ride home from Amarillo. I wasn’t there, and I’m not qualified to determine whether the cheese was guilty. I was simply grateful that whatever happened occurred before he became a regular consumer of my cooking.
Transportation presented another challenge. We now have three boys and two cars available to them, which sounds manageable until you factor in practices, social plans, illness, and one boy who doesn’t have a vehicle. Junior hockey players have developed a transportation system based largely on the generosity of teammates and the occasional direct order to a rookie.
“You live closest to me. Sorry to lean on you, but you need to take me home.”
I’m not sure where that falls in the team’s official chain of command, but it seems to work.
The new arrivals have also changed the social dynamics of the house. Our original boy was accustomed to going out several evenings a week, which contributed to our flexible dinner schedule. The new guys seem more inclined to stay home. Whether that’s their normal behavior or a combination of illness, exhaustion, and adjusting to a new household remains to be seen.
Whatever the reason, they’ve had a calming influence on our resident social butterfly. He’s been home more often, although the availability of a car every other day may also be influencing his decisions. I would like to credit our charming personalities, but I’m not prepared to compete with automotive independence.
The biggest adjustment, though, wasn’t the food, the transportation, or even the sudden increase in laundry. It was taking on the emotional responsibility of two more boys.
That may sound selfish, but there’s a difference between providing someone with a bed and dinner and making room for him in your life. These guys are legally adults, but they’re still young men living away from home, trying to play hockey, figure out their futures, and navigate circumstances they don’t always control. We’ve done this enough times to know that the relationship doesn’t develop automatically just because someone moves into the spare bedroom.
And this time, the boys weren’t arriving at the beginning of a season with the excitement of a fresh start. They were being asked to move after two months somewhere else, learn another household’s routines, and get comfortable with two more adults who have their own expectations. We knew what we were volunteering for when we said yes. They were the ones dealing with the uncertainty.
When they first arrived, the thank-yous were almost nonstop. They thanked us for meals, for helping them get settled, and for just about everything else. I appreciated the gratitude, but I also wondered whether they felt they were imposing on us. Three boys are certainly more work than one, but we knew that before we agreed to take them.
As the week progressed, the thank-yous became a little less frequent. I consider that a good sign. They were beginning to understand that we really were going to take care of them. They didn’t have to keep thanking us for fulfilling the commitment we’d already made.
I also began feeling more comfortable doing what I do best: giving them a hard time.
One of the new boys is an early riser. By the time the others are trying to locate their alarms and remember what day it is, he’s already showered, eaten breakfast, and is ready for a conversation. He’ll sit in the chair and chat for a while, which suits me just fine. He has a level head and an East Coast perspective that I enjoy. He reminds me a little of one of our favorite boys from last season, although I’m trying not to make comparisons before everyone has had a fair opportunity to disappoint me.
Another boy is less enthusiastic about mornings. As they headed out the door today, I called after him, “Good talk, Buddy. We’ll finish it later.”
He apologized.
I laughed. He hadn’t done anything wrong. I was just giving him a hard time for sleeping through another opportunity to benefit from my wisdom. I’m sure he’ll eventually learn that not every comment I make requires an apology. Some of them don’t even require a response.
We’re not particularly close yet, but we’re getting there. The conversations are starting to happen naturally, and the joking is becoming less tentative. I don’t feel the need to force it. If I give them enough time and enough opportunities to talk, we’ll figure each other out. I also have to remind myself that not every quiet moment needs to be filled with my thoughts. This is particularly difficult for someone who has accumulated as many thoughts as I have and considers most of them worth sharing.
Some of my projects went untouched last week, and our routines were disrupted. That’s okay. We agreed to take the boys because we wanted to, and knowing them from breakfast made the decision much easier. I don’t know how the hockey season will end or what kind of relationships we’ll have when it’s over. But I can already see them becoming more comfortable, and I’m enjoying getting to know them beyond the breakfast table.
The boys were talking about how they’ll look back on this week in a few years and laugh. Between the illness, the unexpected move, the transportation complications, and the adjustment to sharing a house with additional people, they’ve had plenty of material to work with.
I’m hoping that when they tell those stories, the difficult part will be the move and the illness rather than having to live with Andy. I would prefer to be remembered for the conversations, the occasional bit of brilliant humor, and perhaps a decent meal or two. They may remember things differently.
We’ve survived the first week. The thank-yous have slowed down, the conversations are picking up, and I’m getting more opportunities to give them a hard time. I think we’re going to be fine.
