Unfortunately, it wasn't the first time, and it won't be the last. The first time was when he was three, actually. And as luck would have it, I ran into the knee surgeon who repaired my ACL from that incident up at the ski hill today. Which is also where I tore that ACL stupidly following Isaac down a box rail three years ago.
As you do.
There's something about strapping sticks to your feet and pointing them down an icy hill that results in injury or death to rank amateurs. Go figure.
"Knee's holding up great!" I told the doctor cheerfully, (as if this were really weighing on him), and hoping that if he did remember me, he at least forgot that I puked on him after I woke up from surgery.
This time, I managed to make it back home with all bones and ligaments intact, although it was definitely touch and go there for a little while. "DUDE! TURN!!!," I yelled in vain into pelting snow and wind as Isaac shot off the chairlift like a rocket from a launchpad.
Two runs later, my thighs felt like someone lit them up with a blowtorch, and my vain attempts to keep up with a six year old took my ego to the woodshed. The indignity of it burned hotter than the lactic acid leeching into every muscle below my waist.
"Why does he have to go so fucking fast?" I grumbled aloud to no one in particular as I made one turn after the other, barreling after Isaac as fast as I could go to catch up to the inevitable moment when his refusal to FUCKING TURN resulted in one ski sticking up out of a mound of snow and no other part of him readily visible to the naked eye. At which point I would lecture him about FUCKING TURNING.
I have a feeling this winter is going to bring at least one major claim to my health insurance company, preferably on behalf of myself and not my youngest dependent. For now, I plan to deal with this ass-kicking the only way a 40 year-old body knows how. With ibuprofen and, once I'm in for the night, whiskey.
Time to get a bumper sticker that says "A Six Year-Old Kicked My Ass Today." Even if it's not a powder day, or even a ski day at all, I guarantee you it will be true until Isaac turns seven. At which point I will get a new bumper sticker that says "A Seven Year-Old Finally Made Me Break Every Bone in My Body."
P.S. No sooner did I type that sentence than I heard Isaac shout from downstairs, "MOMMY, I MADE FIREWORKS!"