Confessions of a Snowbunny

I grew up in Southern Ontario which is known for many things, none of which is awesome skiing. Yes, there was Blue Mountain in Collingwood, but look at any relief map of Canada, and you’ll notice that there is no “mountain” in Ontario. Quebec, good skiing. Alberta, great skiing. BC, awesome skiing. Heck, we’re hosting the winter Olympics next year in case you hadn’t heard.

But if you back up a paragraph you’ll notice that I grew up in non-skiing Ontario. Yes, okay, Kitchener-Waterloo had a ski hill called Chickopee which, rumour has it, was an old garbage dump. That gives you an idea of the height and scale of the hills.

And since I was into figure skating growing up, I was 11 or 12 when I first set foot on skis.

The skis of the early to mid ’80s were about 600 feet long. They had a turning radius of a small cube truck.

Invariably, I started every run with a graceful slalom which rapidly deteriorated to an unplanned bomb straight down the middle of the hill as I waved my poles over my head and shrieked at the top of my lungs, “Out of my way! I can’t stop! HeeeellllLLLPPPPP!”

I am a sight to behold on the ski hill.

More to the point, I am a disaster to avoid on the ski hill.

Seven years ago, when I first moved to Vancouver, I went on a ski trip to Whistler. It was, to say the least, an experience. I discovered that skiing mountains requires getting on gondolas… human sardines squished into a tin can with no obvious posting about the safe maximum weight limit, which I was sure we’d exceeded, and maybe I should just have gotten off that contraption that was basically hanging on what amounts to a fortified string a gabillion feet in the air, traveling without the benefit of de-icing equipment.

After hyperventilating myself to the end of that ride, I discovered that I had to then get on a chair lift which, let me tell you folks, is the equivalent of a painted park bench held up by some chains on an even slimmer piece of fortified string. People willingly got on those things to boot and swayed in the open air for god’s sake, and I tried to hold my breath the entire way up, but the ride was way too long for that, even for a deep sea free diver, and I tried not to casually worry about slipping out from beneath the small steel bar some engineering fool thought was going to stop me from plunging 150 feet to my death when I noticed the 10 year olds in the chair ahead of me purposely swinging their chair, and I wanted to yell “Stop it you fools!” but I realized I was holding my breath again and couldn’t make any sound above a whimper.

The sheer mental and emotional exhaustion nearly did me in before my first run.

After a day of skiing the lengthy (cough*green*cough) runs down the mountain, journeys made marginally longer than anticipated owing to my apparent desire to hug a few trees on the way down, I was spent. I knew I deserved the cold beers I had to fight for at the après-ski watering holes of Whistler village, in the same way that I knew I did not deserve the self-inflicted muscular pain of the next day.

I have never gone back.

Until today. When I dropped Nate off at our local North Shore mountain for his first ski lesson. For youth should not be forced to repeat the mistakes of their parents.

Unfortunately, it seems he's developed a fear of the “magic carpet” which takes kids up the bunny hill. He insisted on hiking up instead.

Maybe it’s genetic.

Today is a Nothing Day

Today is February 19th. It's an inauspicious day to say the least. Valentine's day plus five. David's third day away of a five day business trip. It's a midway marker of a month that (in Vancouver at least) doesn't know if it wants to be spring or winter.

... today it was spring, warm and sunny with crystal blue skies ...

Today is the day that Ranger was due.

I half cringe, half smile typing that name. It's so ridiculous that it's hard to take seriously.

I look at my two children now, one an increasingly independent preschooler, one a toddler still holding hands with his babyhood, and I wonder what it would have meant to have a third little one right now. How would I have coped?

Which is silly, really, because we always cope in the end.

Today I was looking up the questions SciFi Dad had sent me in December when I was stuck in a bloggy mire and looking for inspiration. I never got around to posting them, so I thought I would today. Unfortunately, most are out of date and Christmas holiday related. But he did ask (and gave me the option of opting out), "With two boys, do you want a third baby, or do you want a girl?"

The question being asked doesn't bother me. This is the question that swirls around constantly in my head. For months it was how I started and ended each day. Now it's relegated to the background, a quiet hum that vibrates through me.

I can't decide. Do we try for a fourth child? Do we adopt? Are we done? How old is too old to keep having children?

...

It's hard to be sad on a day like today. One that is sunny and warm and pretty despite its nineteenth-ishness. And it's hard to be sad because as David and I often marvel, no matter what, our family is perfect.

I just wonder, could it be, should it be, just a little more perfect?

Time

Lately, our days are ruled by time.

Oh hell, who am I kidding. My days have always been ruled by time. But lately everything's about the clock. And our incessant hoop spinning to get the kids dressed or undressed, fed, out the door, in the door, in the car seat, out of the car seat, in the daycare or preschool, from the daycare or preschool on time. In time. For time.

Which means that we are no more or less normal than any other household out there.

Well, at least when it comes to lives ruled by the clock.

All of this got me to remembering ridiculous "times" in my life:

12:00pm -- The time the Flintstones came on every day when I was in kindergarten.

3:14pm -- The time my high school let out for the day.

2:22pm -- The end of one of the class periods in aforesaid high school day.

7:20am -- The time by which I had to be on the road to get to my teaching job on time.

17:00 -- The time on the 24 hour clock that made me miss my bus home from Oaxaca to Monterrey when I was living in Mexico. (I always think it is 7:00pm instead of 5:00pm.)

8:36am -- The time the Bill Good Show starts on CKNW.

What crazy times are in your life?

If You Had to Guess...

What do Susan Sarandon and Ghandi have in common?

Want to find out? I've got a new post up over at BlogHers Act Canada.

Just Call Me Martha

On Sunday, Nate turned 4. In my mind, kids' birthday parties are a bit of a PIA. There are the hassles of entertaining a group of kids for an extended period of time at an age when it's enough work to entertain your own kid for that long. There are the expectations of doing at least as much as the previous mommies in your circle have done (the casual out-Martha-ing of each other while protesting that you're not doing anything at all for this year's party). And then there is arguably the most insidious social custom of said parties: the loot bag. No mom really wants tons of plastic crap rolling around in her car for weeks after the event, but getting something meaningful means spending more money. It's all a big headache as far as I'm concerned.

The first two years of Nate's life were marked by adult parties. We invited our friends, drank wine and ate some cake. Last year I copped out of throwing a party. We were about to move from the place I can't, in retrospect, believe we lived in for 20 months. It was not a place conducive to entertaining (read: it was a true embarrassment to have anyone over), and thus the impending move provided me with the perfect excuse not to host a party.

This year, I figured I was on the hook. We live in the perfect home for entertaining. Nate's social circle is expanding. I didn't want to hear 20 years from now that I scarred my son for life by failing to provide him with a chance to collect as much booty as possible as early on as possible.

In an effort to keep things simple, I planned a cupcake decorating party. For three weeks prior to the event, I collected various cupcake paraphernalia until I had a tidy stockpile. And then, four days before the party, disaster struck.

Nate, recalling Jake's Spiderman cake I purchased at the last minute in September at the local grocery store, demanded to have a Spiderman cake too. The exact same one as Jakey's. Please mom. Because that's what I really want.

A few curses, a phone call to the grocery store later, we were set. Except that now we had cupcakes and cake set for the same party. Somehow I didn't think I'd be winning over any mommy friends by allowing the kids to decorate and eat cupcakes followed by Spidey cake with ice cream. Fortunately, David had the brilliant idea, the night before, to let the cupcakes be the "loot bag", thus killing two birds with one stone. (I keep him around for moments such as these.)

The entire party was a huge success. Granted I haven't gone down to inspect the sugar-fueled damage to the play room, but overall, everyone had fun. I think the adults were more into the cupcake decorating than their kids. I saw not a few parents slap their children's hands away from their masterpieces, while fighting tooth and nail over the decorating bags and icing bling.

Nate? In 7th heaven. I think I may have scored so big that I can skip doing anything for the 5th birthday and sail on the wings of this success straight on through to his 6th.

A Party Montage:

Step One: Lay a base. (Note the Spidey tablecloth. Who's Martha or what?)



Step Forty Three: Display artwork on loot bag plate.



Pose demurely with Spidey cake:



Show remarkable restraint for a 17 month old. Use cutlery and a Spiderman plate properly:



Open gifts ('cause it's all about the booty):



Pick your favouritist gift of all: the Razor scooter:

Gratitude

Sometimes, the bloggy world can be one of the greatest places.

Two weeks ago, Jenn at Juggling Life gave me this award:

jugglinglife.typepad.com

I love reading her blog. She's got a great perspective on parenting and the world, not to mention that she is pursuing a teaching career now that her kids are older.

And, on Friday, this arrived in the mail for me. Julie, from Bejewelled by Jules saw a comment I left on McMommy's site. And so she made this for me, in memory of Ranger.




I am so touched by her kindness.

Today, I wish I could hug the world.

We Have Descended to *That* Level

When I met my husband, I had lived in Vancouver for nearly two years enjoying the cultural avenues available to me.

I was a season ticket holder for and patron of multiple theatre organizations.

I attended the Opera.

I visited the Museum and various art gallery showings.

I drank red wine from expensive stemware, munching on canapes while discussing global politics.

I could quote Shakespeare, and watched it performed in the park.

Then I got married.

...

This past weekend, my husband took my son to Monster Trucks.

There are no words to describe my dismay, knowing that my son is starting his life exposed to the cultural equivalent of a smelly armpit.

In all fairness to David, it was our neighbour BB who bought the tickets and issued this missive in his invitation: "Please have the boys wear appropriate white trash attire...ripped jeans, beer shirts, wife beaters, bad baseball hats with those aeration holes, 6 pack of Old Milwaukee...etc..."

So, three dads from the 'hood, with their three impressionable sons, hit the show.

First, Nate was loaded up on (undoubtedly mercury-laden HFCS-fueled) ice cream bars:



Which resulted in this crazy behaviour:



The show consisted of family-friendly, fire-consuming tricks:



and safe automobile maneuvers:



After seeing this, Nate's dying to do some doughnuts too:




Here's the man (BB) I hold responsible for it all:

It Keeps Recurring and There is No Cure

Get your minds out of the gutter. That's not what I'm talking about.

Or is it?

Check it out over here. I've got a new post up about "it" at BlogHers Act Canada.