This weekend was a bit of a challenge. It wasn’t the solo-parenting. In some ways, it can actually be easier. I don’t know if you find this to be true, but when it’s just one of us, the kids know they’re only getting one flavour of bureaucracy so there’s no point trying to playing sides.
The issue this weekend was skiing.
I grew up with an understanding that skiing meant being out in the woods, propelled solely by your own power. Any interactions with gravity were taken carefully and strategically, as they usually required navigation of a small path, a sharp turn and a cocoon of surrounding trees. It was quiet and peaceful, though my parents might suggest otherwise. We took note of woodpeckers and bluejays and sometimes, if we were lucky, watched chickadees take crumbs from my parents’ hands.
I’m sure I’m romanticizing these excursions beyond their actuality, just as I have the canoe trips we took in Algonquin Park. I lamented to my mother this past summer that I haven’t carried on our tradition of paddling, portaging and swearing for an hour over tent poles.
“We did that twice,” she said.
I was stunned. Maybe I somehow merged memories of camp overnights with those of these two canoe trips, turning them into an annual tradition in my mind’s eye. If anything, this should stand as proof to all us parents that you don’t have to bend over backwards to do amazing things with your kids all the time. You just have to do it once or twice and, by they time they’re 40, they will be giving you credit for an idyllically fascinating childhood.
This same notion holds true for our cross-country ski trips. I feel like they happened annually but maybe it was once a decade. Either way, I remember enjoying them. We would pack the car to the brink of its bearings and head out to the hinterlands. Sometimes, we went to the winter session of my summer camp and I would always find it odd to be sleeping in what I knew of as the senior counsellors’ cabin. There were some familiar staff from the summer months and they would do fun things with the kids, like building a giant elephant out of snow then carving it into snow cones doused with delicious, dye-infused syrup.
The actual skiing was a production. They were waxed skis back then, so you had to read the conditions, heat the wax, prep the skis and pray you got the combination right. Then there was the application of clothing:
Bottom:
Base layer
Knickers
Knee-high ski socks
Gaters
Boots
Top:
Base layer
Turtleneck
Wool sweater
Shell
Hat & Mittens
Add the backpacks full of Nature Valley granola bars, bananas, juice boxes, tissues for the inevitably runny noses, and all the other waxes just in case your instincts were wrong, and you’re ready to ride. My dad would also have to put in his contact lenses. He only ever wore these to ski so, to me, this was a significant part of the expedition.
At some point, we stopped taking these trips. It was likely after the one where my parents allowed me to bring my best friend from school. I have no idea if she had ever skied before and I have no idea why they let me bring her. Possibly because all they and my older sister wanted to do après ski was read, so maybe it was an insurance policy on being left alone.
With all of these fond memories, you’d think I would have been chomping at the bit to get my kids on skis as soon as they could stand. Alas, while I maintain my loving memory of the sport, I did not inherit the confidence to pursue it on my own, never mind taking it on with children in tow. Where would I go? What if we get lost? What if I take them too far and they just decide to quit in the middle of the woods? If you happened to read last week’s post, you’ll know I’m pretty good at the ‘what if’ game.
And this is how it came to be that yesterday I found myself driving along a treacherous highway towards a windy, sub-par ski hill all with the goal of getting two tired kids to their lessons on time. A friend asked why I didn’t just turn back. It was a fair question. I believe the answer lies somewhere between duty and inexperience.
You see, I don’t actually like downhill skiing. I’m decent at it but I hate being cold, I am afraid of heights and I relish the idea of maintaining sensation in my feet. For all of these reasons and more, I find it hard to get enjoyment from this sport. However, while I was busy not taking our kids to the myriad *free* cross-country ski trails around here, Luke was busy fostering a love of alpine. One kid is totally sold. The other is at 70 per cent. I have to give him credit. I don’t even want to get myself geared up. Imagine how much someone must love it if they’re willing to try putting kids’ feet into a pair of those boots.
Point being, I don’t have the passion and therefore don’t come at it with an appreciation for what constitutes a reasonable level of suffering and risk in order to reach the peak. I had it in my mind that this is what alpine people do. I don’t get it, but getting it wasn’t part of the deal. I just had to get them to there, so I did.
I made a promise to myself that 2020 is going to be the year I get back into the kind of skiing I enjoy, the kind that keeps the nerve endings in my toes alive and brings about a sense of peace in nature as opposed to fear of impending death. With any luck, I’ll be able to convince at least one kid to come along. If history is any guide, I’ll only have to do it once for them to think back fondly on all the cross-country skiing adventures they took with their mom. I’m sure a backpack full of snacks will help.