Stairway to Heaven

When I was a kid, the vast majority of our family vacations were taken to visit family. My mom’s side, specifically. So many aunts, uncles, and cousins in a few adjoining small towns, so different from the city suburbs where I lived (back then – at this point, the chains and box stores have crept in and the myopia of youth has lifted from my eyes). The biggest difference in those eyes was that everybody had a basement and everybody had stairs (yes, I realize those would be required in order to have a basement in the first place, but remember: Kid). This was bliss to me. I spent hours in basements (when not outside enjoying the fact that the temperature was nowhere near that of the sun’s surface, as it was back at home), playing pool (doesn’t everyone have a pool table in their basement? It’s a law, right?) and card games (it would be a few years until I was old enough to join the grown ups’ nickel poker games). I broke my heart that I didn’t have a subterranean level to my house. It always felt like a special secret hideaway to me.

The stairs, though. Oh God, how I wanted a 2 story house just so I had stairs to walk up and down. I wouldn’t realize until much later, when I started house shopping on my own, how colossally irritating stairs could be if you had to lug stuff up and down them all day long, but as a child, you know, they’re just cool. I rubbed my backside raw sliding down them, and worked hard to perfect my Slinky walk (I think I bought a new Slinky every single summer), although I never truly mastered it (yet). Stairs were perfect for stacking stuff out of the way. And there’s no better place for sitting and reading, or for eavesdropping on those poker games. My aunt has the ultimate staircase – hidden in what looks a closet, so you can have your stairs and your privacy, too. I will admit I practiced many a bridal procession down those stairs.

This weekend, we visited my sister-in-law and brother-in-law’s lake house for the first time. It’s a lovely little place, very cabin like, with a main floor and a loft. And stairs. A spiral staircase, as a matter of fact. (My younger self just swooned.) I didn’t really think anything of it for the first 10 seconds after our arrival. It was at that point that my children proved their genetic connection to me and made their first of eleventy million trips upward. Sammy, being 4, had a decent hang of things, meaning he didn’t run full speed down and therefore didn’t learn gravity’s lessons so tragically. But Sabrina. Let me just stop right here and say, My Darling Girl, you are the reason I am going to have gray hair. Every penny of you earn for the next 18 years will go directly to my stylist. That’s just the way it goes, Sweetie. And I’m your mother. It’s the law.

I could have grown roots standing at the bottom of that staircase, letting her climb, giggling, up exactly 6 steps before redepositing her at the bottom and hitting the reset button.

It would have been nice to have pictures of the merriment, but those little buggers are like squirrel monkeys on crack. I can show you the staircase in question, though.

Kid perspective: Fun! Joy! Adventure! Mom perspective: Danger! Pain! Death!

Next month, we’re making this same family (road)trip (God help me), this time with me in the mom role (yeah, yeah, sunrise, sunset, yadda yadda). I’m sure it will take the kids precisely 6 nanoseconds to discover the stairs once they’ve been duly smooched and smooshed by their relatives. And I’ll sigh and stand at the bottom, ready to catch them. Hey, they’re their mom’s kids.

Now this olive obsession, that’s all their dad.