Crazy Dancer

My husband, Craig, has been attending the WCHA Final Five hockey tournaments in St. Paul, MN, for twelve years.  The group of guys he goes with start planning for the trip around Thanksgiving, and then reminisce about last year's trip from the second they get home until they start the planning process all over again.

It's kind of annoying. 

Nothing, and I mean nothing, will stop them from making the annual trek.

Once, when Murray was just four months old, I came down with a nasty stomach flu. I was in the emergency room being treated for dehydration, and Murray had yet to be away from me overnight.  My crying, screaming, begging, throwing up and passing out didn't even change Craig's mind about going to the tournaments.  That night, I had no choice but to send tiny Murray to his grandparent's home (thank goodness they live in our town).

I really, really wanted to throw a rock at Craig's head that day; I don't think I've ever been so mad at him.

WCHA has never been a negotiable subject in our marriage.  March means WCHA with the boys, and no matter what happens, he's there.  I could be giving birth, and he'd probably leave me in the hands of a stranger just to get to the games.

Now, DH is not a bad guy.  In fact, he's a great guy.  But, when it comes to hockey, he's like a crack addict on a mission.  I'm not exaggerating.

This is what happens:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=waU43gypbs4&feature=player_detailpage#t=8s (Sorry, I don't know how to embed this, but trust me, the clip is worth your time).

Yes, that is Craig.  The man I married.

So, I'm thinking, that after eight years of this, it's my turn to start an annual tradition.  Somewhere sunny in mid-January, perhaps.  Cocktails on the beach, anyone?

And surely, I'm a better dancer than he.