Skiing Greens
I’m skiing down a mountain with the Rubster (that would be my little female clone also known as the daughter) in front of me. I think I’m skiing greens (those are the easy runs) but this is the meanest green I’ve ever been on and she’s just a wee thing and can’t quite...how can I put this in a manner that won’t make her disown me when she’s eighteen and looks back and reads this stuff? She can’t quite stay up on her feet or maintain any shape other than that of a human pretzel. And she’s pissed and then she’s crying and then she doesn’t want me near her and well, basically, she throws a fit of a tantrum on top of the mountain in the nasty freezing cold. What’s a Mommy to do? I finally get her calmed down, up on wobbly, tired, misdirected feet and ski with her between my legs, me hunched over with my legs in a permanent state of pizza-shaped-turn-in. Not sure the knees will ever be the same. My body is beat to a snowy, icy, block of freeze. Skiing with a seven-year-old. What was I thinking? Shoot me!!!!!! Oh, for a pole, a wall, a floor, some wickedly warm music and the safety and sexy of an S Factor studio!