The engineer has a dream. He dreams of a family careening down mountains of fresh powder as bright as our smiles, our cheeks pink beneath giant, reflective goggles. Poor bastard grew up in Denver taking a bus up to amazing ski resorts on the regular, so he’s a far step ahead of his Cali wife and Washington offspring.
The Madness, no longer quite earning her nickname, has evolved into a fairly easygoing kid willing to play along with her dad’s schemes. She’s long since forgotten that time he set her loose on a hill and she took out a small family. For the last three winters, he’s pulled her out of school early on Fridays to bomb up to the pass for some night skiing.
Then, the Engineer’s friend, whom I will call Craig because of his awesome Craigslist powers, scored skis and boots in my size. It’s possible I accidentally gave the impression of being someone who might ski. I mean, I do try to support my husband and I did ski a few times when I was too young to experience temperatures or back pain. Also, they make a great Bloody Mary at Steven’s Pass, so it’s true I like to go to the place where skiing happens. I can see how the men got confused.
Anyway, we were well on our way to achieving the Engineer’s goal. This year, our youngest became old enough for lessons. Craig got her kitted out with tiny boots and tiny skis and I found her a tiny retro ski suit at Goodwill.
The dream was so close. He could almost taste the fresh pow.
So of course she got kicked out of ski school. Not for arson or anything, just a good old fashioned “refuses to participate.” My kids “refuse to participate” like other kids pee their pants. It’s apparently default mode.
So now, instead of relearning snowsports on a frozen Friday night while the girls are in their respective ski classes, I’m sitting in the lounge drinking a Bloody Mary and trying to act heartbroken.
Me: “honey,” *sips tasty beverage, “I’m not mad, but I am disappointed…” *waves down bartender. “One more of these, thanks. And a hot cocoa. You have any crayons?”