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It was bound to happen at some point in their lives, but it still came as a shock when, after 11 seasons of minor hockey, my boys decided to quit and hang up their skates and live off nonexistent product endorsements and Mom's cooking. Gone for them were tryouts, hockey camps, spring hockey leagues and winter hockey leagues.

With just my daughter left playing, the question I got asked an awful lot was, "What are you doing with all your free time?" You would think that with all this free time on my hands, I would have mastered a new language or learned to play the oboe or something. Or, at the very least, I would no longer have any expired dairy products in my refrigerator. But the answer is no - my free time was consumed otherwise. I perfected the art of social media - induced procrastination. I discovered the art of a second cup of coffee. Life was beautiful.

Soon after the boys announced their retirement, we had some neighbors over for dinner, and they remarked on my new dining room accessories: two hockey jerseys hanging from the chandeliers.

"Nice touch, Astra," said one.

"Are we seriously eating dinner in here?" said another.

"What gives?" they all asked in unison.

You see, I was struggling with how to appropriately honor the momentous occasion of my boys' retirement (beyond the impressive little happy dance I did in the privacy of our garage, and the long-anticipated clink! of wine glasses I shared with my husband). It was both a proud moment and a little depressing, too. It was a day to both rejoice and grieve, laugh and cry.

In keeping with a tradition well known in many sport circles, I decided to retire the boys' jersey numbers. Their hockey careers were done (until their initiation to the beer leagues), and it just wouldn't have felt right to see other kids sporting their famous jersey numbers.

So I arranged a very special ceremony. I respectfully invited members of my sons' hockey association; they were not able to attend, but their touching response ("You are hereby requested to return the two jerseys to our association or face a replacement fee of $80, plus tax, each") brought tears to my eyes.

Members of the community also received gracious invitations to the event and, though not in attendance, were delighted to pass on their congratulations and acknowledgment of my sons' many accomplishments ("The outstanding credit on your skate-sharpening card will be voided at the end of the month unless it is used in full"). And though we expected a full contingent of friends and family members, many of them were otherwise occupied ("Sorry we can't make it - unlike you, the rest of us are still busy with hockey!").

I shed a tear or two as I proudly hoisted those two jerseys to the rafters (noting that those rafters - our dining room chandelier - had to be dusted, since I now no longer had any excuse to avoid house cleaning). I thought of something a most revered doctor friend (that would be Dr. Seuss) once said: "Don't cry because it's over; cry because it happened." Hockey certainly did happen in this house! It was the perfect denouement to complete my sons' calling to minor hockey, and my life as a humble hockey mom - that is, until my daughter retires.

As you might imagine, my husband thought I'd totally lost it this time.

He thought the jerseys should be hung from the ceiling in our bedroom.

- Astra Groskaufmanis

Astra is mother of three who lives in Ottawa, Canada, and pokes fun at motherhood, middle age and minor hockey. She wrote Offside by a Mile: Confessions of a Hockey Mom (FriesenPress, 2015) and contributes to HockeyNow.ca. Visit her at www.astragroskaufmanis.com and follow her on Twitter @mydustbunnies.