This is all my fault...

I'm not what you would call a sports guy, but I do enjoy a good hockey game now and then. At last weekends' silent auction, I bid on two tickets to tonights Chicago Wolves game, and won.

Ian and I made the trek down there shortly after he got home from school. The tickets were at a will-call window somewhere on the north side of the building. After walking around the building in 15 degree/-5 wind chill, and thinking the will-call window was closed, we ask a guy at one of the regular ticket windows. He sends us back around to the north side of the building and across the street. Duh. If I had looked to my right about 200ft, I would have seen the big bold print saying, "BOX OFFICE". I felt so bad for making Ian walk all the way around for nothing. His little teeth were chattering like crazy.

Well, this time we drive over there so that Ian can warm up a little. So we go in, grab the tickets and drive back around to the parking lot.

We go into the arena and grab some nachos, because, well...nachos rule. We make our way to our seats and start munching on our crunchy/cheesy goodness. The tickets were pretty nice seats. Main floor, 11th row, in the corner. Ian's not impressed. He decides he'd rather sit in the upper balcony away from the crowds. No problem, plenty of empty seats up there, and I don't mind.

So the opening sequence hits and it's very loud. Ian's least favorite part of the whole experience, pretty much every time we've gone. He makes it through,
and it's game on.

I take some shots of the game down below, and then I scoot over about 6 seats, and snap a few of Ian, jumping around trying to get on TV during a traditional rendition of "Cotton Eye Joe". We make it through about 5 more minutes of ice time, and I realize the camera was still set for the game exposure, and all the shots of Ian are underexposed. I scoot back over to take a few posed shots, and I can see somethings not right with him. Something hit him hard and fast. Uh oh. Been there, done that.

Now he's cold, very cold. I wrap him back up in his hat and gloves hoping that will help. It doesn't. I glance back over at him a minute later, and his eyes are welling up with tears. He's hit the breaking point, and asks if we can go home. We pack it up and head out.

We get to the car and he's chattering out of control again. I buckle him into his seat and then wrap my coat over him like a blanket. I just got over that whole can't-get-warm feeling, and it sucks. The engine is cold, but once we hit the tollway, the heat is blasting and he's finally able to control the teeth-chattering.

We get home, and click on the game while we put jammies on. I give him an advil and snuggle up to him on the couch for a few minutes. He falls asleep with 5 minutes left in the game, so I put him to bed.

He's already been up once to pray at the porcelain altar. Poor kid. I'd gladly trade places with him if it would mean he would smile tomorrow. It's one thing to see your kid sick, it's 1000 times worse when you feel like it's all your fault.