He Didn't Get That From Me...

My friends, it seems I am raising a small extrovert.

I often wondered why on earth David would say hi to cars and people as we drove by them. I figured it was a quirky toddler thing. Yesterday, however, presented a new possibility.

We hosted several moms and kiddos for a brunch yesterday morning. After everyone left, the boys played together while I cleaned up dishes and food. I remembered that I had left some chairs and toys outside, so I headed to the door to grab them. As I started to open the door, David quickly crawled to look out the window while shouting, "Hi! Hi!"

There were over 20 people in my house for two hours. Ian and I wanted a nap. David? He wanted more people!

Just Write

I'm dedicating this post to my writer friends Kat and Nicole. Whenever I think longingly, "Gee, I wish I could be a writer," I remind myself of lessons that I have learned from them. The most important lesson, perhaps, is that if I want to be a writer, I need to -- um -- write. Just write. It doesn't matter if it's messy or irrelevant. Just get it out there onto the (virtual) paper.

This afternoon I'm racing to get dishes done before the kids finish naps and I whisk them to the park to play with friends. But thanks to my writer friends, I'm inspired to take a couple of minutes to let the creative spark burn.

Are Hockey Players Heroes?

When the Nashville Predators first unveiled this season's slogan, I wrinkled my nose.

"Heroes play here."

Firemen are heroes. Soldiers are heroes. To me, hockey players generally do not fit the definition of hero. Sure, there are some players whose obstacle-strewn paths to the NHL might qualify them as heroes. Joel Ward, perhaps. I think Theo Fleury's courage qualifies him as a hero. Overall, though, the "heroes play here" thing just wasn't working for me. I love my Preds, and I think Shea Weber is a good hockey player, but he's not a hero.

For the first half of this season, my preschooler Ian's favorite players were Pekka Rinne and Shea Weber. Whenever he was playing hockey (always), he would say, "I'm Pekka Rinne," or "I'm Shea Weber," and adopt a tough-guy look.

We visited many practices this season, but one practice in December seemed to change Ian's outlook on the game. As Ian stood with his nose pressed against the glass, occasionally banging with his hands to get the players' attention, Ryan Suter caught sight of my little guy. Suter picked up a puck and used his stick to flip it over the glass to Ian.

Since that day, Ian has only had a heart for Ryan Suter. "I'm Ryan Suter," he'll say in a low voice as he walks into the room. "I'm Ryan Suter," he says when I try to ask "Ian" a question. Our youngest son has been dubbed "Ryan Suter's little brother," and Ian has been coaching him in correct name pronunciation -- "Ryan Suter. Can you say that? Ryan Suter."

As "Ryan Suter," one of Ian's favorite games is giving out pucks. He'll walk up to a family member, give them a fist bump, and hand them a puck. He's started practicing the art of flipping a puck off of a stick, the way the real Ryan Suter flipped him a puck at practice.

I think my son has a hero.

And as much as my definition of hero involves sacrifice and courage, I don't mind that Ian's definition is simpler than that. He doesn't yet understand war, or death, or much at all of the trials we go through in this life. He's three, and if the kindness one hockey player showed to a little boy makes that player his hero, I think that's a wonderful thing.