I won’t bore you all with the details of yesterday’s ski calamity. Needless to say, it involved Francie, the ski patrol (again!), a mild concussion and a healthy dose of drama. Funnily enough, the child who moves the least has now suffered two mild concussions. The NFL has nothing on us.
When I envisioned a skiing family, in my mind I saw all seven of us swooping down hills, grinning faces, rosy cheeks. Days on the slopes would be followed by puzzles, cocoa, roaring fires. What I did not envision was “Do I have to go? It’s so early…” or “Again? Really? Can’t I just watch some shitty tween television that’s way too over my head?” One of them accidentally eats the other’s  breakfast and a fight breaks out, someone stubs a toe on a ski boot, someone else loses a sock, and everyone cries at some point. Once they are there, they quite enjoy it, but getting those whiny brats in the car on a Sunday morning is murder and I cannot for the life of me seem to communicate how inordinately lucky they are to be graced with the opportunity to learn this young. Unlike me. There is nothing graceful or chic about me on skis. Sometimes I close my eyes and wait for it all to be over. I blame that on learning late in life, but somehow I suspect it may have more to do with me and the loss of control. Oh, but that’s a whole other can of worms.
I also envisioned looking fabulous skiing. When I dropped off Efram and Francie in their lessons I had a good look around. Granted, Snoqualmie is not Vail, and Washington State women are woefully lacking in the sartorial flair department, but I fit right in wearing my old ski bib —  you know, the child’s XL that I bought off some sale rack over a decade ago. I looked like a giant black slug and sadly, so did many of the women around me. I spotted one or two nice gets-ups, and ran into a friend who looked very fetching in white. But all in all, it was, as my grandmother would have said, no great shakes.
Having said that, my kids see me as no great shakes either. For reasons that I refuse to think about, the boys and M were paging through a catalog with pictures of women in bathing suits. (Again, NOT THINKING ABOUT IT.) Bennett said to me, “We saw a woman in a bathing suit catalog who looked just like you.”
Really?
“What was it? Nordstroms? Did you little darlings mistake Vogue for a catalog again?”
“Nope,” he replies. “Lands End.”
Awesome. Some lady in a Mom-Kini. Lots of ruching and tummy control panels. She probably had on white sneakers and was holding a juice box. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against LE, but if you’re gonna be confused for a swimsuit model, it ain’t one of their’s.
“That’s nice. I hope she was beautiful.” I didn’t stick around for him to say, “No, she just looked like you.” I just left the room in search of a counter to wipe, or some other mess to clear up.