Family Matters

DECEMBER 15TH, 2016

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“Any fool with a dick can make a baby, but it takes a real man to raise his children.”

That quote had been in a movie I’d watched back in the day when I was still toiling in Junior A. Still a couple of years from being eligible for the NHL draft and just shy of a full decade from the age I always envisioned myself starting a family at, that quote and the conviction in the voice of the actor who’d delivered it had struck a major chord deep inside of me. And from that moment on, I had sworn that I’d do everything and anything remotely possible to make sure that I had a bond with my children; the kind of relationship with them that I’d never fully experienced with my own father. That I’d dive head first into the amazing blessing I’d been given and I’d become the daddy and the man that I knew it was entirely possible to be. I had promised myself that during my wife of girlfriend’s pregnancy (the latter in case I hadn’t managed to marry myself off by twenty five) I’d attend every possible doctor’s visit and ultrasound appointment. I’d go to prenatal classes and I’d be in complete awe at the feel of our baby -my baby- kicking and squirming inside of their mother. I always imagined myself the quintessential ‘fier papa’; the guy with a digital camera practically glued to his hand so he doesn’t miss a single moment and who can’t stop bragging to even completely strangers about his little miracles.

I always envisioned myself lending a hand during feedings -regardless of whether it was the middle of the day or the wee hours of the morning- and helping with diaper changes and being more of a hindrance than an aide during bath time. Determined I was going to be the type of dad that made each and every moment count, I had vowed to read bedtime stories, to mend skinned knees and elbows and split lips and chins with both medical intervention and hugs and kisses, to chase monsters out of the closets and from under beds and to attempt to solve every problem with ice cream. As long as mommy wasn’t around, of course. I would teach a son to throw a football, I’d be the one taking him to early morning hockey practices and kneeling in front of him on a dirty dressing room floor as I tied his skates and then be the father in the stands shouting positive encouragement; a camcorder in one hand a cup of cheap, foul arena coffee in the other. If I had a daughter I’d learn how to style her hair into braids or pigtails, I’d memories the names of each and every one of her stuffed animals and dolls and I’d indulge her in tea parties and create a whole catalogue of silly cartoon voices I’d call upon the cheer her up when she was down. All of those things -and a million more- where what I had always planned to bring to my role as daddy.

Considering the time constraints and routine absences that comes along with my career, I think I’ve done remarkably well in my attempt to live up to the expectations I’d long ago created for myself. I try my best to always be there for my family. I’ve caught red eye flights from cities on the opposite side of the country when my wife has called in a panic to say she’s had to take on of our babies to the hospital because they’d fallen ill. I take time out in the middle of road trips to travel home -even if it’s just for a few hours- to attend my children’s birthday parties, and no matter where I ma be in the US or Canada, I get on my lap top every night and read a couple of stories to my little ones and then say personal goodnights to each member of my family. Even the cats. Because as my three and a half year old always says when she holds them up to the camera -Gris-Gris under one arm and Hoover under the other, both squirming and flailing as she grips them painfully tight- “kitties have feelings too, daddy!”

There are no words to describe the power that that simple five letter wields over mere mortals. Someone who doesn’t have kids of their own can’t possibly understand the emotions that surge through you when your children turns their adoring, idolizing eyes up towards you, flashes a toothless grin and calls you ‘daddy’ for the first time. The love that engulfs you is all consuming; the lump that forms in your throat threatens to choke off all air as a flood of tears settles in your eyes and makes vision impossible. It’s the same way I’d felt each and every time I’d witnessed the birth of every one of my four children; a feeling of completion and perfection that had seized a hold of me the second a tiny, dainty bundle was placed in arms and through my tears and my wonderment, I’d gathered enough strength to kiss my wife and tell her I love her and then thank God for gracing my life with a woman so phenomenal and a child so perfect. The pride and respect for your wife that surges through you as you watch her, the love of your life, put herself through hours upon hours of agony in order to give you’re a baby is indescribable. I’ve always respected and loved Clover before she blessed me with such amazing, precious gifts; there’s never been a time I haven’t worshipped the mere ground she walks on. But creating the miracle of life with her and then seeing her deliver our babies into the world had created a deeper and greater adoration. I simply love her beyond all comprehension.

And I love the life that we’ve established for ourselves. A spectacular home in Cambridge, Massachusetts, an unassuming, humble and quiet existence despite the fame and fortune that comes with being an NHL star and the fact that my wife is a household name herself since she’d opened her own well respected and lucrative business only three short years ago- and four incredible, phenomenally beautiful children that fill our lives with a joy and a love that I’d never thought possible. We had found it simply impossible to stop at just a couple; we enjoyed being parents and made a damn good team when it came to child rearing and we couldn’t resist adding to our family at decent, respectable increments. Soleil Marie-Claire had been our first; born in the middle of a blazing, disgusting hot June (and just two weeks after my own birthday) in my hometown of Ancienne-Lorette, Quebec in the same small, unassuming and non English speaking hospital that my mother had delivered me in twenty five years before. She’d been a healthy seven pounds, six ounces and a petite fifteen inches long and had been blessed with nearly coal black hair, my eyes and her mother’s skin tone. I’d cried when I’d held her; when that nurse had placed that surprisingly content baby, swaddled tightly in a pink receiving blanket, in my waiting arms. I’d never seen anything so beautiful in my entire life and had never before experienced such an intense, overwhelming love before. It’s as if that tiny baby had filled a hole in my heart that I’d never even known existed.

Two years later we’d added a new member to our family. A second girl -Manon Celeste- that had been born -as equally as beautiful and healthy as her big sister- on Christmas Eve at Brigham and Women’s Hospital in Boston. A year and a half afterwards, we’d had our third daughter Nathalie (correctly pronounced NAH-TAH-LEE) Danielle and had immediately decided that we’d wait a year and try once more for a little boy; that four would be our cut off no matter what the sex turned out to be. That we’d be ecstatic as long as our baby was just as healthy as the three that can before him or her.

Three weeks ago, God had answered my prayers and had blessed me with son. Although I was extremely blessed and loved my daughters with every fibre of my being, I had desperately wanted a little boy. There’s not a man on this earth that doesn’t want a son; who doesn’t want a child that can carry on the family name and hopefully pass it on for generations. We’d decided to remain in the dark throughout the entire pregnancy; fighting the urge at every ultrasound to ask the tech to take a quick look at our child’s ‘parts’ to put our speculations and guesses to rest once and for all. We’d somehow managed to survive and hold out until the bitter end, and when that doctor had announced that we had in fact, after three girls, created a boy, I’d bawled more than my newborn son had.

He’s perfect in every possible way. From the bottom of his wrinkled feet to the tips of his long, slender fingers to the top of his head full of thick, black hair, he’s nothing short of incredible. Like his sisters, he has mommy’s ears, heart shaped lips and her tiny chin, but he has daddy’s eyes and skin colouring. A true Patrice Junior (or PJ as Looch had encouraged everyone to call him) in every way, shape and form. Like Soleil had been -and like she can still be if her younger sisters, who are just as hyper and high strung as their mother- aren’t driving her mental- Patrick as Clover and I refer to him as, his a remarkable calm and serene baby. He rarely fusses or cries and has to be fed every three hours like clockwork because he won’t freak out and let you know when it’s time for his meal. He is however, in his mother’s words, an ‘attention whore’; he’s most content when he’s being carried around as much possible and loves to lie on your chest and be as cuddled as tightly as his tiny body can stand.

And right now, he’s enjoying every second of daddy’s attention as he lies along my left forearm and sucks busily at the bottle of formula I clutch tightly in my right hand. His eyes are opened and staring up at me intently as he indulges in his meal, one of his tiny hands curled around my forefinger and his tiny feet squirming and his toes curling every time one of his sisters drops their cutlery on their plates or talks too noisily at the Disney Princess child sized table across the room. It’s a typical Sunday morning -when I’m not on the road- for the Bergeron-Cleary family. From the time that Soleil entered the world I’ve always given my wife -if applicable- the chance to sleep in on the weekends; even if it means I’m dead tired and practically a zombie because I’d just gotten in the door from a long, tedious road trip just a couple of hours before.

Once the girls got older it became our weekend breakfasts became our favourite time to spend together, especially if they hadn’t been able to see me for a couple of weeks because hockey responsibilities had taken me out of town. I make them breakfast -usually strawberry banana crepes (their absolute favourite) or blueberry pancakes if we don’t have the proper ingredients for the other- and then we all gather in the kitchen together, the girls at their Princess table and me sipping coffee at the nearby counter as they chatter incessantly about everything they’d done at school or daycare while I’d been gone and how they’d been good girls because they’d cleaned their rooms and eaten all of their vegetables when mommy asked them to. It’s our chance to get ‘caught up’; for me to allow all of the stress and anxiety of the game trickle out of my body as I concentrate on ‘more important’ things like the cutest boy in the class having a crush on Soleil and the gymnastics teacher telling Manon she ‘has a gift’ and how some bully at day care decided to use Nathalie’s arm as a chew toy.

It’s mornings like this and times with my family that keep me grounded. That make me realize how blessed I am to have such an incredible life and how fortunate I am to have a wife and beautiful children waiting for me at home. My girls teach me that as wonderful as it would be to win a Stanley Cup, nothing is more important than being their daddy.

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“Now there’s a sight that does something funny to my insides,” Clover’s voice drifts into the kitchen from the doorway as she watches me with our son; obviously liking what she sees as I lean back against the counter in a pair of tattered and worn sweat pants with my hair mussed and a couple days worth of stubble gracing my cheeks. “Funny in a good way,” she adds, giving me a smile as she wanders into the room, looking exhausted yet sounding surprisingly upbeat and pleasant. “A very, very, very good way,” she says, as she plants herself in front of me and turns her face up for a kiss.

I more than happily oblige.

“You do the strong man with a tiny baby thing very well,” she says, and runs a delicate hand over our son’s hair. “It’s a very good look for you, Monsieur Bergeron. And you…maman’s petit prince charmant…” she places a kiss on the top of the baby’s head. “Comment ca va, aujourd’hui?”

“Ca va tres bien,” I answer for Patrick, and then pluck the empty bottle from his mouth and hold it up for her to see. “Et tres faim.”

“Bon garcon!” she exclaims, and nuzzles Patrick’s forehead with the tip of her nose. “That just proves you are exactly like your father. You’re both bottomless pits! Bizou…” the last word comes out as a request and she’s tilted her face up at me once more.

I press a soft, chaste kiss to her lips in response.

“Bonjour mes enfants!” Clover cries, as she journeys -slowly and somewhat painfully, her body still attempting to heal from the fifteen stitches our son’s birth had left her with in her ‘most tender place’ as she calls it -over to the Princess table and greets each of our daughters with kisses and hugs. And then carries on a conversation about their mornings and breakfast in as much French as she can string together. It’s important to us that our kids grow up bilingual and the three younger ones will attend the same French immersion private school that Soleil is currently a student at.

“Are you all excited for the birthday party today?” my wife asks, as she pulls up the extra pink wooden chair that accompanies the kids’ table and slowly and carefully lowers herself onto the edge. “Milania and Octavia are one year old today! It’s a huge day for them!”

And for their parents. After years of trying and three mid term miscarriages, Looch and Teagen finally managed to have the baby that they’d both wanted so desperately. Or in their case, two babies. Identical twins daughters with their mother’s green eyes and bright red hair. And who, according to post-birth exams, show no sign of having inherited their father’s Scheuermann’s Disease. Looch even gives me a run for my money in the proud daddy department; I don’t think he’s managed to wipe that goofy, ecstatically happy daddy grin off his face since his girls had been born.

I glance up as Clover’s musical giggle -the same one that had been passed down to all of our daughters- fills the kitchen and immediately brings a smile to my face.

That woman is a Goddess.

And I’ll never be able to ever thank her or tell her I love her enough.