Joanne & I

The wind whipped our faces, staining cheeks rosy pink as we slowly ascended the mountain, rocking gently, suspended thirty feet above the carefully manicured slopes. We laughed and compared notes on our children’s progress skiing since “last time.” Joanne is five years ahead of me in motherhood but we’d just dropped off her son David, who’s headed to college in the fall, and Ezra, who’s finally reading without (too many) temper tantrums, in same ski class. This was good for Ezra’s ego, and David’s a notoriously good sport. Joanne’s blue eyes sparkle and her laugh is as contagious as her optimistic zest for life. She’s a relatively new friend, but she fits like an old shoe and is good for my soul. It was a liberating moment for me to drop off the last little child and realize that, for an hour at least, I could ski without scanning the hill below me for my little people rolled into big snowballs as a result of their latest “learning experience.” I enjoyed every moment.

On the quad lift

As lovely as a quiet Mama moment is, there is nothing for sheer entertainment like riding a chair lift with Ezra (or doing anything else on a given afternoon with Ezra, come to think of it.) He’s been stoked about this ski trip since we announced our intention to go three weeks ago while we were still in Canada. He clearly remembers his last ski experience, two years ago, and has been focused on emancipating himself from the continued humiliation of “the leash.” As we’ve taught our kids to ski, we’ve safeguarded the health and welfare of the other hundreds of folks sharing the hill with our little kamikazes by tying them into, what look very much like, sled dog harnesses. Ezra remembered this and began lobbying immediately to be allowed “off the leash,” citing every physical accomplishment of the past twelve months as evidence that he could be trusted not to kill grandparents skiing quietly on a green hill, or wrap himself around an unsuspecting hemlock minding her own winter business beside the trail. Two trips down the bunny hill and he headed for the big lift, “Come on Mom, let’s go! I’m ready.” He’d remembered to go potty BEFORE putting on his snow pants and had informed the ski rental attendant of his vital statistics: “4’3- sixty pounds, male…. right Mom?” There had been minimal complaining about the tightness of the boots, he’d carried his own skis, popped them on without assistance and had not yet peed through his clothing leaving an embarrassing yellow patch on the groomed snow: Even I had to admit he was making progress over our last attempt. I had no choice but to follow.

Sometimes, I’m happy to be proved wrong. Ezra skied like a champion all day. So did the other kids. Elisha skied along with us, encouraging Ezra with his elder brother wisdom, while falling at least as often as his younger compatriot. Gabe and Hannah tested their radio and promptly disappeared with thirty of their peers to terrorize parts of the hill that were not populated with any of their parents. We were regaled with stories of black diamond moguls and received only one cry for help. The radio crackled half way up the lift: Crrrrk “ Dad?” Crrck. “Yes Gabe?” Crrck. “We’re stuck. Do you think you could come teach Hannah Enos how to snowboard?” Crrck “Um, NO, Gabe, I have no idea how to do that, be patient and help her down, then check her into a class.” Crrk. “Okay Dad.” Crrk. “Roger that.” It’s funny to have big kids. I mentioned to Joanne on our ride up the lift that this is the first time we’ve been skiing in over ten years that we didn’t have a reservation at the slope daycare for the afternoon for at least one of the children. Tempus Fugit.

Ezra in his hot pink goggles

It was on one of the last trips up that I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. We were on the quad, Elisha and Ez sandwiching Tony and I in the middle. Ezra giggled as the bar came down and cited a long standing family joke about the third person stuck in the middle of a hug, “You’re the cheese, Mama.” He and Ez chattered a mile a minute as we slowly ascended and watched carefully between poles 12 and 13 for the two bright pink and blue brasieres hung in the tip top of an embarrassed elm tree. Ez giggled. Elisha shook his head and wondered aloud how, “… someone could lose their bras way up here.” As we approached the top and prepared to disembark Ezra looked up at me, snapped his borrowed eye protection down like he was lowering the visor on a medieval jousting helmet and announced, “I don’t care if I am wearing Sophie’s hot pink goggles! I’m having fun!” Tony slapped him on the shoulder and congratulated him on being man enough to wear pink. I’m not sure he heard his Dad though, as he slid off toward the top of the blue hill, both hands clenched in fists, the last thing we heard was his pre-launch war cry of “BONSAI!!” and Elisha’s “GERONIMO!!! Ezra! Wait for ME!!!”