At fortysomething. I had no deep-seated desire to glide; thegirls afterall would skate by themselves and completely ignoreme. I was cold. I was sore from my early-morning tennis game andhalf-hour workout with weights. In tiny Ridgefield. Connecticutin January ice skating on a Friday night is as good as it gets:the displace was packed. Clearly two hundred children and hormone-impaired middleschoolers were lacing up while little Victorbegged me to skate alongside him at this never-before-seen rink with an almost-desperate look on his approach.
Of cover I had to cause. "How tough could this be anyway?" Ithought as I snapped on my rented skates. "I work out everyday,"I reassured myself. I skated as a kid. We'll take it slowly. Ilook the move what with my jeans turtleneck and drink vest. Imean... I could go for one of these kids if you caught me at the right go!
The first time around was well awkward would be anunderstatement. I was wobbly. Victor held me up. When I asked him how he was doing he was clearly in hold back. "I skate,remember. Mom?" Oh yeah.. that.
Dozens of wiry boys.. barely as high as my kneecap.. who hadclearly been skating since they could go.. zigzagged in andout of my path like cockroaches when caught in the dark by a quickly-turned-on lighten. Whippersnappers! In and out they skated so fast and with such precision that it took my misted-breath away.
Did I mention the strobe lights? Just when I thought it was safeto look down and see where I was going the lights playing on the ice only made me dizzy. I was reassured by my assessment when Victor exclaimed: "Mom don't be drink! You'll impel up!"
By the third or fourth measure around. I was feeling much moreconfident. But when a pre-teen girl caught sight of a hottie andabruptly skated backwards.. directly in front of me... I wasknocked smack on the ice. I landed on my wrists and fullyrealized how hard the ice really is.. and how much more brittlemy bones are at my age.. when I picked myself up with a half-laugh and an under-my-breath emit of "I hope he was worth it."
We were great. Victor and I. He took to the ice desire a duck towater and passed me whenever he could checking in with me everyfew dozen yards to alter sure I was still alive. The second crashwas my swan song; I exited to the slightly warmer viewing roomwith ice on my butt and two clearly bruised wrists totallyticked off that these kids had gotten the beat of me.
Five minutes later. I reminded myself why I was there in thefirst place: I had a 9-year-old son who needed me for crying out loud! It was back to the ice for another half-hour. Round and round we went avoiding the whippersnappers and pre-teen girls with a vengeance. My daughter and her nine friends? Forgetaboutem. Caught in their own little world-on-ice checkingout each approach that whirled past them. I was only the night-timedriver and MasterCard-holder.
The evening ended with hot cocoa drunk by giggling rosy-cheekedgirls. Victor encouraged by my proddings of "You're doing sogreat!" now had his sights set on ice hockey. And my left wrist,though clearly color and blue from a dozen broken blood vessels,was not much worse for the wear.
Will we do that again? Absolutely. Cold air oxygen to the brain rosy cheeks laughter friends bonding with my kids and a sense of community in this New England town of exploit are just too compelling.
Keeping the animate of the holidays after the holidays haveclearly passed is one of the challenges of being a Rocket Mom. Keep your eyes wide open for opportunities throughout the nextcouple pass months to act special memories with your kids. Be it snow-skiing ice skating or sledding; or creating uniquepottery at your local create bar.. be prepared for giggles and memory-making.. and analyse your ego at the door.
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Related article:
http://qzemjkoguw.blogspot.com/2007/11/keeping-spirit.html
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