I've been really inconsistent in the blogosphere lately. No internet access can do that to you. And I so miss reading the blogs regularly. And I miss being able to write. All these thoughts scramble around my head with no outlet. Makes me think I should invest in a notebook.
Today I only had a few minutes and popped over to a few of my regulars. I read Jana so eloquently lament her growing pains. I read Aidan's beautiful words about beginnings and endings, the passage of time. And then I read Big Little Wolf's rendition of her own boys to men. I, too, had a similar experience this weekend. I thought this such an interesting coincidence, I must share my own.
We kicked off our annual ski season. We've been doing this for years. My husband grew up skiing and it is part of his life. I never had the experience growing up and so, when we first married and moved within driving distance to drop-dead-gorgeous-with-most-excellent-skiing South Lake Tahoe, he insisted I learn. I cannot thank him enough. He makes me do lots of things that I would never do on my own. In fact, I'd probably be living in my bedroom watching re-runs on TV if it wasn't for him.
Every year we spend most weekends after the holidays up at Tahoe skiing. The deal we always made with our boys was that once they could ski the entire mountain, they could continue on the ski team, or just ski with us. So far, the older two have chosen us.
The two boys that ski with us have been "certified expert" skiers for years now. They could pick their way down anything and we do all types of terrain. Groomers, steeps, trees and powder. In the early years, there were times when I had to feign confidence just so they would follow, pushing them and myself to new limits with each and every turn.
This season is more of the same, but different. Boy number three is on the ski team now, just starting to rip it up. The two oldest are still hanging out doing runs with mom and dad. But there aren't tears anymore. There are races and choices of who will pick the path. There is flicked snow off the tip of the ski at his brother, or at mom or dad. There are races to dust each other, or mom or dad. It is simple, pure fun with no video games, or television, or internet, or phones.
The difference this season is that the boys can't get enough. It's "C'mon mom, c'mon dad. Hurry up and finish your water. I wanna get back out there." "Do you really need to go pee that bad? Can't you wait til we stop for lunch?"
The biggest punch this year is that they not only are eager, they're better. Better, faster, stronger. They have legs that just won't quit. I could not keep up. And neither could my husband. On one run, he kept falling and they were waiting for him. They were concerned for him. My two oldest boys are now better skiers than my husband and me.
That fact has stuck with me all weekend. At one point I mentioned to a friend, pouting, how they kicked our butts. And, she immediately looked at me with a huge smile and said, "Isn't that what you want?!" It was more of an exclamation than a question. I said, begrudgingly, "yes, of course". But that pang, that sadness of something gone is still here with me. And, I was reminded of it with the writings of others. The common theme we all feel. It is present no matter the age of your children - baby, toddler, young boy, young man. Girls included.
I saw a sign on the wall at the resort near the ski school: Six hours of separation can cause a lifetime of bonding. I hope that is true because I never want to lose this.