Blue Jeans & Jelly Beans
When our dear family friend Yvonne offered us the use of her condo for skiing, at first I was delighted. A ski trip for the kids, spring break in April! I could hardly wait.
Then I remembered the last time we went skiing, two years ago, when the kids were 4, 6 and 8. Every morning had been a frantic morass of mittens, boots, sunscreen, hats, glasses, toothbrushes, and combs. I felt like nobody could do a thing without me. By the time the skiers made it to the slopes, I felt like going back to bed.
That time, each one of the three kids was sick sometime during the week, needing a parent to stay at the condo with them, usually me (or at least that's how I remember it). The youngest tried ski school, fell down, and refused to have anything more to do with her skis, so she stayed home every day after that, too. I felt like a babysitter, not a skier on vacation.
Then there was the issue of ski clothes. Last time I'd borrowed them from my friend, Pat, who has kids the same ages, but our family still hardly has any of our own. The thought of scrounging up all those articles of clothing and all my other memories made me want to skip the trip.
My optimistic husband persuaded me that we should go anyway. We got out the snow chains and stopped the mail. I called Pat again, and that wonderful friend immediately offered to lend all the snow clothes I needed. Everything started falling into place. But I was still nervous about the frenetic stress I remembered.
Once we got there, I couldn't believe it. The kids were up and eating breakfast at 7, then got dressed. After the first day, they learned which bibs, gloves, glasses, etc. were their own, and could assemble them themselves. They'd brush their teeth, pull on their boots, and shout, "I'm going out to play outside till you get ready."
My duties were reduced to reminding them to use the bathroom and applying sunscreen (amid great protest).
The youngest one begged not to go to ski school. No problem: my husband coached her and she was "pizza-wedging" down the hill in one day. No one got sick. Our older two were meeting us at the bottom of the slopes, instead of needing to be accompanied. We were all actually skiing as a family.
One night, we were all in the living room in our jammies. The fire was crackling. Our 8-year-old was reading aloud to us from her favorite book, and our son was making figures out of polymer clay. Our youngest was cuddling with her blanket. I felt completely at peace.
After the kids went to bed, I asked my husband, "Why is it so different this time? Why is everyone so much more relaxed?"
He looked back with his cheerful, sunburned face, and grinned at me mischievously. "You really don't know?" he asked.
"Well, I suppose the kids are older," I began.
He interrupted. "You. You're what's different. You are a lot more relaxed than you were two years ago! You used to hover and fuss and make everybody crazy. Now you're calmer, and everyone else is, too."
I didn't know whether to feel complimented or insulted. Had I really been that awful? It didn't bear thinking about.
So I decided not to think about it, but just enjoy the results. Maybe it's the kids, maybe it's me. I don't know. But thank goodness for life getting easier.
Passarelli lives in Mountain View and once again enjoys skiing.