Full-Time Dads;
The E-Magazine for Caregiver Fathers
Issue 4, originally appeared in print - October 1991
I had not been on the slopes for fifteen years and, during my skiing career, had never distinguished myself in any category other than clumsiness.
But, in deference to the modem theory of childrearing that requires parents to expose their kids to every form of recreation that exists within our solar system, I found myself, one day last vacation, driving my family toward the mountains of New Hampshire.
After all, they say that skiing is like riding a bicycle, that, once you've learned, you never forget how to do it. I felt confident that it wouldn't take me long to reach my former level of incompetence.
Just north of Concord, my wife and I outlined our plan for the trip. We'd rent the necessary equipment that afternoon and head for the ski area early the next morning The kids would take a lesson while I snowplowed around on a bunny slope nearby. My wife, whose last foray on skis had almost resulted in her being charged with assault by a group of beginners she had toppled while hurtling down Mount Nashoba at approximately the speed of sound, would go out to lunch.
In the backseat, my 12-year-old daughter was mumbling from behind a Teen Magazine article about apres ski fashions. By listening carefully, I could pick up words like, "needy," and, "dweeby," and, "dorky," and piece together that she wasn't overly thrilled with the prospect of lessons.
Beside her, my eight year old son was outlining his plan for the day with the wild look in his eyes of a bomber pilot who had flown too many missions After a brief period of instruction, he would practice a bit on the lower slopes, then head straight for the top of the mountain. By early afternoon, he fully expected to be soaring and somersaulting from the highest jumps.
Such a comforting thought
Just before the Canterbury exit, crammed among the roadside symbols for gas and McDonalds and Burger King, was a sign for the Shaker Village. Since my wife teaches a course on the Shakers and since we were ahead of schedule, she and I thought it might be nice to take a short detour and visit this historic site.
Shocked that we would consider an activity which was not child-oriented and, even worse, that this particular activity wreaked of educational value, our kids set about their customary policy of advanced retribution. My son began pumping out the melodious sounds of flatulence from under his armpit while my daughter screamed, "Oooo, gross!' and swatted him repeatedly with an article about Fred Savage's favorite ice creams.
They kept at it while my wife tried to persuade them with interesting facts about this utopian religious community. How they gained their nickname from the frenetic dance they did to ward off the devil. How they were renowned throughout the world for their furniture and architecture. How they led celibate lives. But our kids would have none of this and, as our turn-off approached, the clamor in the backseat rose to deafening proportions.
"Perhaps,- I suggested with a shrug of defeat, "we can come back here some other time," and continued northward on the highway, possessing a far greater understanding of why the Shakers had such strong feelings against procreation.
The next morning, we bussed to the mountain from our motel, moving awkwardly like Robocops in our rented room. Dressed in ordinary jeans and a tan jacket, I felt like a sparrow among cardinals as I led my children to their lesson through the crowd of skiers decked out in ultra-flourescent parkas and leggings and headbands and dickies.
When the kids were set, I drew a deep breath, snapped on my skis and was immediately deserted by all traces of control and balance. Whipping down a miniscule hill, my poles flailing, at the break-neck speed of two miles per hour, I crashed in a tangled heap directly in front of the main lodge's enormous picture window.
A man nearby - only one of several thousand who had witnessed my humiliating performance - smiled sympathetically and encouraged me with the words: "Keep trying. You'll get it. After all, they say that skiing is something like riding a bicycle."
He seemed to be taken aback when, from my sprawled position, I expressed to him my uncensored opinion of "they."
On my next attempt, I tried to traverse a copse of trees in order to avoid killing a mob of two-year-olds with my downhill momentum and slammed down, chest-first, on a root protruding from the snow. There was no mention of bicycle riding from the people who ran to me then. They were more interested in determining whether I had survived.
But even middle-aged reflexes, although slow, are capable of returning and, before long, I was able to make it down a slope decorated with plywood cut-outs of Sesame Street characters without fear of death or dismemberment. I remembered not to sit down on the J-bar, avoided collisions by means of an inept snowplow and, occasionally, pulled off an imprecise stem christie. Sometimes, I was proud to observe, both my skis were pointing in the same direction.
Then my children's lessons were done and they slid over to join me. We spent the rest of the day together on the trails, skidding and laughing and advising each other on the best course down the steeper slopes.
My son's favored method was to jettison himself down the hill like a missile, fall, then crawled back up to jettison himself again. My daughter, with the strength of her dancer's legs, was in almost complete control from the very beginning.
We all agreed it was such a fun time, such a healthy, fresh-air time. We vowed we would do it again soon.
But eventually the lifts closed and we reluctantly went to return our rented equipment. It was then, as we unbuckled our boots, that we realized we had forgotten, in our earlymorning excitement, to bring along our shoes. We would have to get back to our room in stockinged feet.
I deposited my daughter on a stone wall, heaved my son onto my shoulders and waited, for what seemed like an eternity, for the bus, as the white-hot pain of cold crept up my legs. People near us in the long line noticed that I was standing in the snow without shoes and considerately commented on how bad I must feel.
But I had skied, that day, and lived. I had watched my children learn a new skill and had spent a joyful time with them devoid of complaints and arguments and the resonance of armpit flatulence. I was not about to admit that anything - even frostbite could dilute the pleasure I felt at that moment.
"No," I answered, "it's really not so bad. In fact, I paused, searching for some response, even a nonsensical one, which would describe my state of mind, "in fact, it's something like riding a bicycle."
Copyright 1991 John C. O'Brien
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