It all started with a trip to one of those monstrous public pools with the fake island and the flutter boats and the kiddie section that's a solid 15 degrees warmer than the lanes and the deep end. (NOT A WORD.)

It was just Ben and I, a date, and for two hours he jumped and splashed and squealed and had an all around most-amazing-ever time. To the point where every time we leave the house, he picks up his indispensible, commercially repugnant, beloved Lightning McQueen Johnny Suit With Built-In Muscle-Shaped Floatation Device and starts whimpering We go swimming? Swimming. Swimming? Swimming? Mama? Swimming? Swimming? Swimming. Swimming? Mama? Mama? Mama. Mama? Swimming. Swimming. Swimming? Swimming? Swimming. We go. Swimming? Swimming? Swimming? (EXCERPT)

As is natural in all Canadian cities the place where you go to recline underneath fake palm trees is the same place with a giant billboard that says HOCKEY TOWN. Not SWIM TOWN or FAKE PLASTIC TREES TOWN or FOAM NOODLE TOWN or 'DON'T WORRY THE CHLORINE KILLS THE TODDLER PEE' TOWN. Oh no. What counts is the zamboni, friends, and the rest is the dressing of windows.

Trailing a chemical steam, hair still wet, my youngest baby and I toddled next door, beckoned by the smack of pucks and the shriek of whistles. We opened the door and marvel! HOCKEY PLAYERS. We chose a bench, alone but for the team and its coach, and we sat entranced, heads on swivels. They were choreographed voodoo, skates sweeping the ice, sudden outbursts of sprints and laps and slapshots. Every time someone would score we'd (quietly) yell SCORE! and every time someone would get deflected we'd (quietly) yell GOOD SAVE! and every time someone would miss we'd (quietly) yell obscenities. I explained, and he listened. And we sat. And sat. And sat.

Finally, pitch black outside at 5:00, we toddled back along the arena deck and before going back through the doors to the parking lot, he turned around and (not quietly) yelled BYE HOCKEY PLAYAS.

+++

The earth wobbles on its axis. Butterflies pause. Newborn puppies startle. Change is afoot in the 8 PM department.

ULTIMATE LULLABY CHAMPIONSHIPS, 3rd PLACE: FOR PERVERTS ONLY*

Enter the underdog of recent fame, slipping from its first-place spot.

*worth watching all the way through.

ULTIMATE LULLABY CHAMPIONSHIPS, 2nd PLACE: UNMOCKABLE PERFECTION

Enter the throat-choking stuff of NICU legend, the standby.

ULTIMATE LULLABY CHAMPIONSHIPS, 1st PLACE: BENCH-CLEARING BRAWL

Enter the new champion of bedtime's peace, the classic that appeals in the depraved, not remotely deep or dark but actually kind of close-to-the-surface part of every Canadian's soul.

In a great flash this morning it occurred to me to search for the proper lyrics and before I knew it Ye Olde YouTube delivered us 100% authentic, verifiable Stompin' Tom. Enjoy. Add it to your own 8 PM repertoire. Learn each word with reverence. Deliver with gusto. Think fondly of Canadian thuggery. Share this archival, cross-cultural footage with your own impressionable loved ones. Borrow this accompaniment for the under-5 set: THEY'RE JUST HUGGING and THEY'RE JUST REALLY, REALLY HAPPY and THAT ONE GUY IS HELPING THE OTHER GUY WHO HAS AN ITCH ON HIS NOSE. Employ at will.