When I was a kid I loved to go ice skating. It was a winter thing that we did and it was awesome. I had no fear. Lacing up a pair of skates was something that came so naturally to me. As I grew older in Costa Rica, ice skates were replaced by rollerblades and the fun just continued.
Yesterday, I went skating with my son. He has gone before but every time he feels that he has forgotten and he needs me to help him. This inevitably leads to me shaking him off of me so I don’t fall, and so he can see that he knows how. Ice cream happens to be a strong motivator. “If you make it around ten times without grabbing me or falling I will buy you ice cream.” Lo and behold he skated.
And then he wiped out.
And mom got distracted and also wiped out.
I landed gracefully on my side, while pulling a muscle in my shoulder and bruising my hip.
Gracefully = slowly enough to actually feel myself falling, reaching out towards the ice, having my right hand slide across the ice, landing on the ice and being asked if I was ok by a prepubescent girl. Yes, I’m fine. I was just resting.
There is a big difference between being six and being thirty-seven. He’s bouncing off the walls. I’m drinking scotch and popping Tylenol.
Evidently I’m the best at skating and we have to go next week. There will be knee pads, gloves, other pads and a thermos of “hot chocolate”. Awesomeness abounds.