Breakfast Club thematic notwithstanding, I had not planned on this being a blog about raising my teen (at least not exclusively). It seems, however, I have unresolved issues.

As well as observations about my teen.

(I know, I know, where is a good rim shot when you need one?)

You may or may not have read my profile, but let me state for the record that my son, Garret, plays ice hockey. I realize this declaration just sent shivers down many spines and several of you into empathetic comas, with dollar signs floating around your subconscious. Fortunately for our balance statement, Garret did not start ice hockey until he was a first year Pee Wee---that's eleven years-old for anyone still reading who has not experienced youth ice hockey. He's now a first-year Midget, which means he's a 91.

(Standard Disclaimer: If you are not the parents of an ice hockey player---i.e. you do not refer to your child by the last two digits of his or her birth year---then this particular posting will either bore you to tears or serve as an FYI for future reference. If you happen to be the parents of a little tyke---read: pre-Mite---and are considering putting your child into youth ice hockey soon, hopefully you already have a chubby nest egg in place, as well as decent references and a FICO score in the 800 range).

Our son began with inline (roller) hockey, which was substantially friendlier to the frugally-challenged, although still far outside the spending range of the sports I was raised on: football and basketball. Now I am sure times have changed somewhat. I played these sports in the early to mid eighties, and even though there were significantly fewer youth sports camps then, I was not able to attend many. A teacher's salary did not make for deep pockets when it came to athletic training for a snot-nosed towhead, even were said camps available. Suffice to say, there was really only one cost my parents associated with me playing sports: shoes. Cleats for football, high-tops for the hardwood. And that was about the extent of it (and when I wanted Adidas Top-Tens---my generation's version of anything currently with "Air" or "Jordan" in its name---I had to cough up half).

At this juncture I would point out that our most recent investment in youth ice hockey was $450 for new skates (size 12---I am told any bigger sizes will more than likely require us to special order from Nike/Bauer).

Now this isn't sour grapes. Okay, maybe it's one of my aforementioned unresolved issues---let's call it slightly fermented fruit on the way to becoming a gloriously inexpensive Shiraz---but it has no affect on my feelings toward doing this for my son. My concern is more along the lines of having him growing up under the glut of expense that is magically laid out each year and the risk of his believing that this is the norm. Don't get me wrong, aside from maybe taking it for granted at times, he is thankful and very appreciative (and I truly don't believe he intends to think of me as a Wallet with an Opinion, although there are times when I am sure he does secretly refer to me as Cash Cow). He's one heck of a young man, and he works very hard at the sport, so he earns most of it anyway.

Which is all to say, I am probably worried about nothing. Nothing, that is, but my ever decreasing cash position.

I just wish there was such a thing as a 3rd mortgage.

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Obligatory Breakfast Club Quote:

Andrew Clark: You don't have any goals.
John Bender: Oh but I do.
Andrew Clark: Yeah?
John Bender: I wanna be just like you. I figure all I need, is a lobotomy and some tights.
Brian Johnson: You wear tights?
Andrew Clark: No I don't wear tights. I wear the required uniform.
Brian Johnson: Tights.
Andrew Clark: Shut up.