Excerpt from another journal...

At 6 years old, you are not the audience for this particular telling. But as an adult, you'll laugh out loud. I hope.

Ok, so…

1) I am not a strong or confident skier.
2) I harbor a bone-deep, completely irrational fear of chair lifts.
3) I am unable to lift my 6-year-old son easily (almost not at all).

Keeping these points in mind, let me tell you a story. We’ve been skiing three times so far this season—all in the last two weeks. We’re skiing at a new (to us) resort. There are a bazillion runs with five chair lifts servicing them. There is also the requisite bunny hill with tow rope and a cool tubing run. All good.

Paul—the strong, confident skier—promised a Thursday night of skiing for the family. Then had to work late. Good as time as any, he said, to get out there on my own with our son. Go back to points 1, 2 and 3. I do not feel ready to take our 6-year-old son skiing on my own. He’s a great little skier, thanks to his Dad, but he is still a novice and, like I said, too heavy for me to lift onto the chair lift seat.

He is also a master negotiator. He talked me into taking him—just the two of us. Said if we are unable to manage the chair lift (see point 3), we’ll simply hang on the bunny hill or go tubing. And honestly, I have to be able to take him without his Dad. It is stupid to live here, with unlimited skiing and not be able to get him on the slopes. No time like the present to suck it up.

We go.

The place is nearly deserted, spooking us both and exaggerating that “we’re on our own” feeling.

We take off down our run of choice and head to the chair lift for that run. The woman pops out and informs us that this lift is stuck on fast and that her partner—necessary to help hold back the screaming fast chair—is on a bathroom break. So, we shuffle backwards out of the shoot and make our way to another, less convenient chair lift.

Adequate staff and the designated slow lift for the night. They lifted him onto the chair and, at the top, I simply put my hand to his bottom and scooted him off. No wipe-outs and we’re officially in business. We can do this.

Ahhh, but did I mention that this lift is not convenient? We have to trudge—not ski, trudge—quite a ways to our preferred run. G tires of the trudging after 30 seconds. So, together, we decide to attempt runs nearer to the inconvenient lift. All steep and, with the exception of one, all through the terrain park. Down we go. Very, very exciting. And not something he wishes to do again.

So back we go, to the inconvenient, but safe chair lift. And trudge, trudge, trudge to our preferred run. Exhausting for him. He announces that he’d like to at least try the fast lift now, so we don’t have to trudge so far. Ok. So we head to that lift. The partner is back and they both come out to assist us into the chair. Aside from the chair slamming into the backs of our knees (G didn’t care for that), we’re good. Screaming fast up the hill, but good. At the top, I shove him off the chair and join him, arms flailing. Still, we succeed. No wipe-outs and we’re off again. We do it one more time.

When G decides that lift is no good cuz it hurts when he’s tossed into the chair, it’s my turn to get yet another idea. Let’s try a third chair lift that will take us to the other side of the mountain, to an easy run with a tree-lined side-run back to the main lifts when we’re ready to go. Good, great. Off we ski to that lift. Guy looks at me funny, but says not a word. Up G and I go. To the top. Of an extremely difficult run and a big, fat CLOSED sign blocking the way to the easy run. No way to go but straight down. I tell him we can either ski down it—I’ll go first and he can follow me—or we can remove our skis and walk down it. He chooses skiing. So, we ski down it.

Again, very, very exciting. It levels off and I head for the path back to the main lifts—cuz no, we don’t want to do that again either. The path is blocked off. Looks safe enough to me, so I go around the blockade. G, not a rule-breaker, objects. I ask him if he wants to remain stuck on the wrong run all night. He immediately hustles to follow me around the barrier. Off we go back to the main lifts.

Back to the fast chair lift closest to our easy run. Ok, nope, still don’t like being slammed into that chair. So G asks to just go back to the slow chair lift and promises to trudge without complaint. Riding up that lift, G looks down at the nearest run again and decides it doesn’t look so bad now. Of course it doesn’t, not after the mogul run we had just completed. So we pick that run and do it. Exciting yes, but fun. We wanna do it again.

Get back on the slow chair lift. Nearing the top. When it stops. We can hear the squeals of the folks who wiped out at dismount. Then we can see them ski off. Still, the chair remains stopped. For a long time. An unnaturally long time. G starts to cry. I wonder if they’ve closed and forgot us up there. Finally, I pull my cell phone out of my pocket, call information and get the club number. Dial the club. And….just as it is ringing, the lift begins to move again.

Needless to say, at the top G is done. Asks me if we can just go do the bunny hill a few times. Yep. We did that. Then we went home.

Both of us, with badges in bravery. Proud of our teamwork and for helping each other avoid total freak-out stage.

And really, the rest of the ski season should be, comparatively, easy. Right?

Recapping Winter: Skiing

I'll start this post by thanking our dear friend Jason. He provided us complimentary memberships that allowed for unlimited skiing this winter at the Otsego Club. Our heartfelt thanks Jason. We took full advantage of your gift.


Last year, we made it--as a family--to the ski slopes a half dozen Sunday's. This year, G ski'd a minimum of twice a week--sometimes three times a week. He and his Dad ski'd most Wednesday evenings; G and Mom ski'd Thursday evenings. And we all went at least once per weekend--every weekend but one. Needless to say, G loves the slopes.

Particulary through the terrain park. "Did you see me get air on that one?" became his favorite refrain. In one instance, he inadvertantly ended up skating along a picnic table bench. I'm sure he meant to jump off the side of its ramp, but somehow cleared the top of the ramp and found himself skiing the bench. He dropped neatly off the end of the bench and kept going. Then turned his stunned expression my way, clearly wondering if he was going to be in trouble. "Next time, turn your skis sideways," I shouted. And he did. And the next time and the next time. Until he wiped out and decided he'd save that trick for another time.

In this, I'll say that G is NOT fearless. Never has been. He is a cautious kid. But he is also confident. As it was his Dad that taught him to ski, I'll also say that here is yet another example of how naturally Paul gives G the tools and the confidence to succeed. In these moments, they share a mutual trust that transcends stubbornness and impatience--on both their parts. The result is a beautiful thing.

Conversely, I have to work doubly hard not to impart my own LACK of confidence to G. On the chairlift for example. We did ok overall, sharing lots of giggles and even a few math problems on the ride up; but I'll admit to more than one nightmare about it. This and bridges--I'm not likely to get over either one. Which means G will be able to count these as lessons in accepting others--quirks and all. It also means that he'll forever imagine his maternal grandfather as a scaredy-cat--because that's where I come by it and G's been privy to every muttered reference to that legacy.

Early in G's ski season, I penned the tale of our first trip to the slopes together, sans Dad. I'll follow up this entry with a copy to G's blog. There are some Murphy's Law laughs in that story.

To cap a great season, G enjoyed two ski playdates. On the first, he took advantage of a school snowday and joined friend D at D's ski resort. And yup, he rode the chairlift without an adult. See what he can do without his irrationally fearful Mom around? What a great day he had, and so grown up. I noticed he was trying to carry himself like a teenager when I picked him up that day. Shrugging off the day's excitement like it was no big thing. Then passing out on the couch when we arrived home.

G returned the favor the following weekend, inviting friend D to ski with us at the club. Perfect weather, perfect conditions, and D was jumping through the terrain park by day's end. These two go way back...pretty much to four and ten months old. And they are night and day different in both demeanor and interests. But their connection remains, instantly recognized by each and easily assimilated--despite academic or development advances, different schools and those varied interests. Interesting to watch what is probably the closest thing G has to a sibling relationship. And warming...on this particular day, we ended with dinner and a sleepover. And just before I turned out the light, they took turns reading books to one another. Reading their own bedtime stories. Not sure if that's a moment or a milestone, but I tucked it away in my heart for safekeeping.

Interupting the recap for an anecdote

Speaking of G's germ-riddled winter season...

Monday of Thanksgiving week, I picked G up from school and took him straight to the walk-in clinic. Following her examination, the doctor prescribed antibiotics and two days off of school. She left the exam room and G began to cry.

Figuring he was upset about missing the school sledding party scheduled that Wednesday, I assured him that as long as he took his medicine, I would let him go to school for the sledding party.

He cried harder. And, between sobs, he said:

"But tomorrow is macaroni and cheese day!"

Told ya he dug hot lunch. [And yes, I dosed him with prescription drugs and let him go to school. For macaroni and cheese.]

Recapping Winter: Snowmobiling

January kicked off G's winter sports season in earnest. This year, his time was split pretty evenly between snowmobiling and downhill skiing. Between a full day of school and Mom's return to full-time employment, G saw a marked decline in plain, old fashioned snow fun--we built fewer snowmen, spent very little time racing each other down the sled hill, and never once had to switch to the backup snowsuit while the other hung wet from earlier play.

Instead, G played outside at recess and, after school, at daycare. Until the weekend, when his Dad packed as much outdoor fun in as possible--snowmobiling most Saturdays and skiing most Sundays.

Big milestone in snowmobiling this year. Dad sold G's Kitty Kat and started him on the Yamaha 340--a vintage sled sized just right for G. They started in the yard and graduated to a handful of trail rides--weeknights and Sunday afternoons (to avoid other sled traffic). Sandwiched between Dad (confident) and Mom (nervous but proud), he kept to a safe speed and pretty much stuck to his side of the trail. These were short jaunts, but they made him feel so "big." If you asked him about it, he would tell you--"I have a headlight now." For G, this meant he could hit the trails. His way of understanding the difference between riding a Kitty Kat (no headlight) around the yard and powering an adult-sized machine on the trail. Instead of..."when I grow up"...it was..."when I get a headlight."

In addition to these solo flights, G spent plenty of time astride his Dad's machine (just too tall to ride with Mom anymore). He also got to ride with Uncle Curt, who joined us for quite a few snowmobiling weekends this year. Locally, we didn't venture far. But we did get to the UP--resuming our annual trip, with Mr. Nelson and Uncle Curt along for the fun. We logged over 150 miles that first day, on perfect trail, in perfect weather. Everywhere we stopped, G found the nearest snowbank (or mountain), climbed it and threw himself off the top. Again and again.

Unfortunately, a bout of severe flu hit him after midnight that first night and he and Mom spent the rest of the weekend cabin-bound. Poor kid. This was the way of it much of this winter. Hands down, G was sick more during these months than he was in the first five years of his life. One word: kindergarten.

Recapping Winter: 2008 Holiday Madness

Before moving on to general winter fun, I want to hijack this telling of G's adventures with my own thoughts on the 08 holiday season. It was too busy. Common really, I know. But as I edit this--in an equally busy July--I can't help but worry that G has and continues to lose something in the "busy." Pieces of mine and Paul's attention, if nothing else. I worry that those pieces are adding up. And that no amount of filling G's days with activity will make up for it.

The 2008 holiday season started that last week of November, with the annual Thanksgiving visit from Grandma and dinner at Uncle Bobby's and Aunt Tiena's. At the day-long dinner, the kids snowmobiled on what would be the base of our winter-long snow pack. We all went back to Uncle Bobby's the next day--for a leftovers lunch and more snowmobiling. G tooled around on his Kitty Kat for essentially the last time--clearly too big for it and ready to move on and up. It was a relaxing start.

The following week, I interviewed for and took on a second job. Then spent December and half of January trying to succeed in both and still be there to get G off the school bus. It is here that I started giving him, and his Dad, less of myself.

It started on a Thursday afternoon, with the interview and job offer, then a quick haircut appointment for the boys, followed by an evening meeting at the church--step one of becoming church members. Next, a Friday-night playdate that lasted til nearly midnight--so Mom and Dad could go to a work Christmas party. A late night followed immediately by a sub-zero degree Saturday spent downtown, awaiting Santa's arrival. And another evening G spent elsewhere, this time with Barb and Mark, while Mom and Dad enjoyed an adult dinner out with friends--a dinner we squeezed in before we got too busy with the holidays. Sunday morning, our church welcomed us as new members and wished G a Happy Birthday as we dashed for home and his scheduled birthday sledding party. After G's party, we hosted our daycare kids for pizza dinner and play.

And that was the first weekend in December.

With humor, Paul and I look back with words like "what were we thinking?" and "never again." (You'd need audio to truly appreciate the humor portion there.) In all honesty, we know that G enjoyed himself that particular weekend. And in all seriousness--in that moment of time--we think we know better than to put ourselves through those paces again.

G's downstate Christmas came four days later--with a long weekend based out of a friend's cottage. G and I traveled south Thursday, after work and school. Already downstate, Paul worked Wednesday and Thursday. My friend Laura joined G and I for a few hours Friday morning while Paul continued to work. Uncle Mel and Aunt Jana visited Friday night. As did cousins Sara and Michael--only they made it a sleepover. Saturday was spent between Grandma's house and cousin Jeremy's house. Saturday night we crossed the road to visit with G's fave downstate friends--J, J, T and C. In short, it was another hour-to-hour, non-stop fun kind of weekend, rendering us exhausted but content--happy and grateful for the time with family and friends.

As we locked the door behind us Sunday morning, G began to cry. "I wish I lived in this cottage," he cried. "Because then I could see T and J all the time." That broke my heart a little bit. In the same moment, I worried that we were burning him out but was sorry that I couldn't give him more.

A couple hours north on I-75 and G announced that he liked his own house best and went on to list all of his hometown friends. And there we were, living in the moment again. Neither racing ahead nor falling behind. Just right there, in the moment. And I remember every second of it. It was his first trip as navigator. He carefully matched identifiable names on our Mapquest directions to their correlating signs along the highway and asked the requisite zillions of questions about this town or that. We sang along together with the radio, laughing over how few recognizable Christmas carols we heard. Happy at last to hear "Here Comes Santa Claus". Then again. And again--each time by a different artist. He didn't sleep. We just talked and sang, talked some more and laughed tons.

Without a To Do List or carefully scheduled itinerary in sight.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Seven months later, we're feeling over-busy again. But...carving out our moments where we can--fishing, the commute to here or there, rest breaks along the trail, the shared minutes just before he drifts off to sleep.

Paul told me just yesterday, "G sang me your Mother's Day song again. Asked me if I wanted to hear it and sang the whole thing." He referenced a song G composed and sang for me Mother's Day two years ago. "Yup," I replied. And smiled, knowing Paul is collecting his moments as diligently as I. Busy, but mindful.

Recapping Winter: Birthday Sledding

For his mid-December birthday, G held his second annual sledding party. A smashing success. Literally.


It's funny--the difference between gentle, hesitant pre-schoolers and bolder, more rambuctious kindergarteners. Last year, we hosted a half dozen kids and took great care in making sure everyone followed the safety rules. One child on the sled run at a time. This year, we hosted twice that many kids--all just a year older now--and watched it slide into a free-for-all. A controlled free-for-all of course, but still, multiple kids on the run, all smashing into one another. For fun.

For added fun, G's Dad spent the pre-party hours grooming--and icing--the sled run. When G and I pulled in from church, we witnessed Dad pouring just a bit more water here and a bit more there...icing it up for speed and every conceivable type of sled. It was a work of art and it held up beautifully.

G's Dad, Mike and Bobby spent the afternoon running kids back up the hill on three vintage snowmobiles. Didn't take the party goers long at all to figure out this was the best way back to the top--piling 2 and 3 to a snowmobile, sleds dragging from all sides and little voices loud enough to be heard over the engines' whine up the hill.

Hours of fun...

And just like last year, those hours of fresh air and physical exertion resulted in big appetites, red cheeks and glassy eyes. By party's end, the food was gone, the cake decimated and the gifts neatly stacked in a corner--where they stayed for several days. It took us all--G included--that long to recover.

Rounding out the day, we hosted the Slosar family for a pizza dinner. These were our daycare kids and we enjoyed this gift of time with them very much.

We also appreciated the love and support of the Fuzi's--as always. In so many ways, you give us the ability to simply be with G--always handling the details (pictures, presents, food and cleanup) while Paul and I join in G's fun. Yours is the greatest gift.

And in case you thought dirtbiking was far removed from G's winter fun, think again. His favorite gift? This Camelback hydration system for, yes, dirtbiking. Thank you Barb and Mark.

Recapping Winter: 2008 Holidays - Traditions

Backing up to the holidays...

G added a few new traditions to his holiday program this year--the first of which took place a good month before Santa was scheduled to arrive.

Making cookies for Kevin
Kevin is our soldier penpal, presently stationed in Afghanistan. Because holiday shipments to the troops required 4 weeks, G and I spent the first of December up to our elbows in cookie dough. Limited on time, we opted for simple, undecorated cookies, easily frozen then shipped. Still, we spent a couple of weeknights at the kitchen counter, G on a chair and me in oven mitts.

Santa Parade
I believe the Santa Parade and photo op came next. This year we attended with the K family--J, C and E. Lunch, parade and Santa time was all good--but I think the highlight of the day was time spent on the mountain-high pile of snow--plowed more than a story high next to the pavilion.

Hand-made Teacher Gifts
A full-fledged kindergartener, G put his own personal touch on the refridgerator magnet frames I carved out for his teachers. His touch involved a lot of paint. And a couple of evenings. And plenty of pride.

School Christmas Pageant
This was a formal affair with a month of rehearsals and 24 hours of trauma coming directly before it. I knew they were rehearsing in earnest when G excitedly announced his back-row position on the risers. That and his diligent, repeated practice of Rudolf The Red-nosed Reindeer--with a special "Yippee" in there.

Unfortunately, he spent nearly a month practicing with all of his teeth and, with less than a day to go, lost one of his two front teeth. It was his first and it went the hard way--knocked out during play on the snow and ice covered playground. Both painful and traumatizing, the loss led to an afternoon of trying his Dad's patience. Lots of tears, a missed afternoon of school and a steadfast refusal to give up the napkin lodged in his mouth.

He recovered overnight. The pain gone, the incident fading to memory and a newfound excitement at the whole tooth fairy phenomenon. All was well. Until time to dress for school. In khakis, dress shirt and tie. At this age, G does not do buttons. Period. There are no dress shirts, polos, henleys, etc. in his wardrobe. So, when it was time to dress in his newly-purchased dress shirt....what was the expression I used? Oh yeah, it was as if I was pouring flesh-eating acid on him. Now he was trying his Mom's patience.

Once at school, he suddenly loved the shirt--and the tie--and went on to give a fabulous performance from his place on the top riser. Look and listen:











Icing and Gumdrops
With all of the scheduled events behind him, G finally got to decorate our own cookies and his very own gingerbread house--his first. He was very precise and only a bit disappointed to learn that you don't actually eat gingerbread houses--at least not the store-bought kind.

Lots of moments to come

June 17, 2009 - A friend recently pointed me to a long-ago column on motherhood. It is written by Anna Quindlen and titled "On Being A Mom." In one passage, she writes:

"But the biggest mistake I made is the one that most of us make... I did not live in the moment enough. This is particularly clear now that the moment is gone, captured only in photographs. There is one picture of the three of them sitting in the grass on a quilt in the shadow of the swing set on a summer day, ages 6, 4 and 1. And I wish I could remember what we ate, and what we talked about, and how they sounded, and how they looked when they slept that night. I wish I had not been in such a hurry to get on to the next thing: dinner, bath, book, bed. I wish I had treasured the doing a little more and the getting it done a little less."

Reading it, I was at once ashamed and validated. Ashamed to have let G's journal lag. Validated in the knowledge that I've been busy--living in those moments with him. However, since it is exactly that texture of life Quindlen refers to that motivates my pen (or keyboard)...it was the push I needed. A push to gather up my gazillion scraps of paper--each a thought or an image from months past. A push to cull my email correspondence and my (other) site content for shared joys and sorrows. And a push to just look into G's face and remember.

The end result is a chronological recap of all the experiences I failed to capture in G's journal--more than six months worth. And while I'm sure to have missed some of what Quindlen wishes for, the task of putting words to these experiences elicited plenty of memories and stirred more than one of my senses. Honestly, that's what I was about. Because, as many of you have commented, this journal is more mine than his.

Or written for me as much as it is for him.

As such, I didn't want to leave a single minute out...