What it takes for two Mamas to go skiing
1) Enlist two Daddy’s to take assorted children for the morning. (Col and Rose, predictably, shuffle through snow on Dan’s snowshoe tracks out to Hobo Camp).
2) Hustle for second rate snacks after kids get first pick. Find lumpy, suspect bricks of gingerbread in freezer, baked for Christmas cookie exchange but withdrawn and exiled due to homemaker-shame.
3) Scrounge extra pair of ski poles for Amy whose poles were long ago enlisted as fence posts for garden enclosure. (Give thanks for random pair of poles found within three minutes in our shed, likely a remnant from a former housemate, housemate’s boyfriend, couch-surfer, couch-surfer’s AA buddy, or backyard roadkill-processing friend).
4) Scrape ice off Dan’s work truck, remove 100 pounds of tools from front seat and drive to Amy’s house while practicing my side-mirror skills (rear window fell off during hunting trip, now replaced with plywood).
5) Dig Amy’s skis out of five feet of snow, bindings intertwined with wire fencing, standing in as fence posts in (feeble) hopes to keep exuberant golden retriever in the yard.
6) Assist Amy’s plus-sized dog in hoisting self into truck bed.
7) Wonder, as we drive, about the coming together of decades-old ski equipment, milk-producing motherly bodies and the moonscape of endless snow.
8) Fall on first small hill, while Amy glides like a snow angel. Curse.
9) Get in the groove: swooshing skis, sun on faces, steamy breath, bodies happily remembering.
10) Receive our first warning: no dogs allowed on cross-country track.
11) Reprieved: man with official emblem on jacket says dog okay just this once, but doesn’t want to see any poop. (*firm stare*)
12) Nervous about outlaw dog, but grateful for so much: the low tech ski-gear succeeding; this boundless blue Colorado sky, the empty vessel through which sunshine pours.
13) Dog poops; We gobble the weird, chewy gingerbread, vacating bag for clean up. Curse dog.
14) Carry said excrement in backpack for another loop while eight more people inform us of dog’s criminal status.
15) Ski back to truck, click out of skis, thighs quivery from exertion, eyes dazzled by snow, heart pirouetting from epic adventure.
16) Check clock, notice we skied for exactly one hour.
17) Drive to town. Sit outside in front of Bread bakery, mochas in hand while dog sleeps in truck, wedged between power saw and jumble of skis. Talk about our kids perhaps, just a little. Perfect morning.
*This post is dedicated to my dear friend Amy, of 16 years. I think somehow, not much has changed.