Sunday, December 20, 2015

Getting Kids Geared Up to Go Skiing Must be the #1 Cause of Maternal/Infant Mortality in the First World

I haven't confirmed that statistic with the CDC, but it must be accurate, because literally every time I try to get my kids ready to go skiing, I feel like one of us will kill the other before we even touch a single snowflake.

Today it started with breakfast.

You see, only an egg and cheese sandwich, and not scrambled eggs with cheese in them on bread would do, so World War III broke out over my kids being entitled assholes. 

However, it usually starts with the boots, and it goes from there.

No matter what efforts we undertake to make sure our kids are in gear that fits and works, there's always something wrong with it. The boots are too tight. The boots are too loose. They're pinching my ankle. They're pinching my toes. My sock is falling down. My sock is too small. My sock has a hole in it. My sock doesn't have enough holes in it. My pants are shoved too far into the boot. Now they're not shoved in far enough. The straps on my snowpants are falling down. My helmet is bothering my ears. The clip of the helmet is too close to my chin. 

"OK FORGET IT WE'RE NOT EVEN GOING SKIING! DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND THAT THIS SPORT COMES WITH A CERTAIN DEGREE OF DISCOMFORT THAT YOU SIMPLY HAVE TO ACCEPT??!"

"STOP YELLING AT US!!!" 

I got myself together and calmly asked if anyone had to use the bathroom. Of course, the answer was an unequivocal no, despite at least seven "are you sures" and 12 "can't you at least tries."

When we finally got to the mountain, I texted a friend of mine to see if she wanted to go take some runs with me. She texted back with a picture of her and two other friends of ours on top of a ridge. "Is that from today?" I asked. It was only 10:00 a.m. and I thought I was doing a great job getting out of the house.

Not so much.

"Yes!" she replied cheerfully. "We thought about asking you to come with us, but then we figured you wouldn't be into it. You know, waking up early to hike and ski and all . . . I know how you hate all that earnest, wholesome, joiner-type stuff." 

Great, I thought. Now I've cynically and sarcastically blogged myself out of socializing with my friends. 

I did one run on which I rode the chair with a friendly, presumptive-26-year-old named Kyle. Kyle's life seemed objectively simpler and easier than mine, despite my knowing literally nothing about Kyle other than the fact that he was young, had a snowboard on his feet, and his name was Kyle. Which was more than enough information for me to envy the Joy of Being Kyle.

I got to the bottom and met back up with the kids. Suddenly a timid voice piped up from under my elbow. "Mom . . . ?"  I knew what was coming, because it always comes. I steeled myself for the four words that I knew for a fact I was about to hear. Still, hoping against hope, I asked softly, "What is it, honey?" 

"I have to poop."



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