If you’re wondering why I haven’t posted from a beach lately, it’s because my kids’ sports fees ate my vacation fund alive.

That’s right. While other families are packing suitcases for tropical getaways, we’re packing hockey bags, tap shoes, tumbling gear, and six different water bottles that will all mysteriously go missing within 48 hours.

We’ve officially traded the “vacation lifestyle” for the “travel sports grind.”

And honestly? The only pool I’ll be sitting beside anytime soon is the indoor one at the local Sheraton (you know, the one filled with 43 kids who mysteriously haven’t left the pool to use the washroom, even after chugging gallons of Qwench and Gatorade.)

Our version of luxury? Late check-out and a functioning waffle maker at the free continental breakfast. And hopefully a massive container of Froot Loops to keep our nutritious levels at par. (You haven’t really lived until you’ve experienced a hotel breakfast with G…. IYKYK.)

Every weekend, we load up the minivan (which now smells permanently like a pre-teens gym bag) and head off to another rink, gym, or auditorium somewhere between “where is that?” and “are we there yet?” We’re basically exploring Ontario one Tim Hortons at a time. And right now, all roads lead to London. (London, Ontario that is… not the one with Big Ben, but the one with 47 hockey arenas and an impressive number of Boston Pizza locations.) So, to all the London locals (please, I beg you) send your best restaurant and “things to do when we’re stuck between games” recommendations. Bonus points if it doesn’t cost as much as a new pair of skates. Vacation fund? Yah right. 

If I had a dollar for every time people say, “You should really treat yourself to a trip!” I actually might be able to FUND a trip. And in all honesty, laugh. Not a cute laugh…  a slightly deranged cackle that says, “Do you have any idea how much a pair of tap shoes costs?”

Let’s break it down:

• Jai’s tap shoes = the same price as a fancy steakhouse dinner for four. Multiply this times 100 for costume costs. Comp fees? May as well sell my soul. 
• Kristian’s growth spurt? That boy shot up three inches in two months (and every inch cost roughly the same as a round-trip flight to anywhere warm and peaceful.)
• G, Ben, and Ryan are out here snapping hockey sticks like twigs. Their Godzilla-level strength is impressive, but apparently every stick costs more than my first car payment.
• And then there’s Briar’s tumbling,  which, let me put this delicately, costs about the same as two Louis Vuitton handbags. But hey, who needs luxury goods when you can have cartwheels?

Which brings me to my next point…

Girls weekend you ask? Every time someone invites me on a girls’ getaway, my soul says “YES” while my wallet says “HAHAHA, GOOD ONE.”

I’d love to sit in a spa robe, sipping Prosecco, pretending I don’t have responsibilities. But that weekend away? That’s exactly the cost of new skates, a tournament fee, and one night at the Sheraton (with late checkout, of course). So instead of clinking glasses with my girlfriends, you can catch me in the stands with a lukewarm peppermint tea, eating arena fries wondering if they’re actually good or if I’ve just lost all sense of judgement. 

The Payoff (no, it isn’t in Air Miles)

All sarcasm aside…  I know exactly why we do it. Because for all the chaos, the costs, and the sacrifices, we get to watch our kids learn lessons they’ll carry forever: discipline, teamwork, resilience, and the ability to get back up after every fall (literally and figuratively.) They’re building more than skill; they’re building character. And one day, when they’re successful, grounded, and (hopefully) paying for my vacation, it’ll all be worth it.

Until then? Cheers from the hotel lobby. 

So no, you won’t see us at the Ritz anytime soon.
You’ll find us at an arena in London, a gym in Hamilton, or a pool in Buffalo, doing the glamorous, messy, exhausting, wonderful thing called parenting kids in competitive sports. And while I joke about it (a lot), deep down I know: the memories we’re making now? They’re the real deal.

Still… if anyone wants to sponsor my next vacation, I’m not saying no.