Cutting Edges

Sammy’s friend Brandon (and my friend, his mom, Amy) invited us to go ice skating today. Brandon is fast becoming a little expert, having taken lessons in order to fulfill his dreams of becoming the next Gretzky. This would be Sammy’s first experience on ice, save for the annual ice storm we seem to get around these parts (but in those cases, he usually has a minimum of traction wearing tennis shoes on the driveway).

Getting the skates on him wasn’t too bad (thank you, Velcro!), and, blessedly, Amy had suggested we bring gloves, a helmet, and knee pad (which we borrowed from Brandon, seeing as we’ve never been in need of kiddie patella protection as yet). Without these 3 things, we’d both be in the hospital (Sammy with a concussion, me in the psych ward). Sammy didn’t seem to think there was anything to this skating thing, walking fairly confidently around the locker room. Then he got on the rink.

Remember Bambi? Oh yeah, limbs akimbo.

Sammy’s legs and arms each went in their own direction as I set my first skate on the ice. Perhaps now is the time to mention that, although I am an avid fan of figure skating as a spectator and even cheerleader, I have been ice skating precisely 3 times in my life, all between the ages of 17 and 25. The first time, I wore shorts.

So that’s roughly (go back to last century, carry the 1), um, a gazillion years ago, when I still had the stupidity of youth and a different center of inertia. Sammy may have been Bambi, but I was suddenly a deer caught in the headlights.

Holy stars in heaven, what was this [age redacted] mother of 2 IDIOT doing thinking she could help her son make his way across a frictionless surface on blades the width of his own hair?

Clearly the youth may have gone, but the stupidity remains.

Yes, I run, I work out, I let Jillian Michaels kick my butt on a daily basis, but none of that is sufficient preparation for an activity that requires every single muscle in your body to go from zero to WAR against gravity inside of 7 nanoseconds.

I wanted one of those little ice walkers in the worst way.

The very kind instructors tried to help both of us, but at that point, Sammy discovered that not only is falling fun when you’re made of rubber and dressed like the Michelin man, but it’s downright hysterical to grab onto your mommy and watch her face constrict in terror as she watches from outside her body as she struggles not to face plant into the ice. Me, I was just hysterical.

I have to give Sammy some serious credit, because in the 40 minutes we spent, he learned how to get up from a fall by himself, march along the ice, skate forward (while holding onto the wall) and chase after me (clinging to the wall just in front of him), and go all the way around the rink perimeter. That first lesson is key, seeing as I couldn’t help him get up even if I wanted to, which I decidedly did not. In fact, I moved AWAY from him in these circumstances, purely out of protection for my tailbone. Scoff if you will, I was teaching my son important life lessons of survival here, people. I gave him skills.

I would like to finish by stating that when Sammy decided he was capital D Done, he sat in the locker room while I did a lap without holding onto the wall once.

That’s a win-win in my book.

The warrior ready for battle. He has no idea what he's in for.