Skiing

In my youth, a trip to the ski slopes meant freedom within what seemed a constrictive world as it allowed me time to be solitary with my thoughts in an environment that brought great happiness to me: snow.

As a father, I am now sharing this dream with my children as only a good parent should. My son’s experience started over a year ago when he was only three. With a strap around his waist that seemed more like a tether fit for a dog, I attempted to educate him in the skills needed to navigate the inclines of the ski slopes. After three hours, I had a son with a smile on his face, and a backache that felt like someone had stuck blacksmith’s red-hot poker in the middle of my back. In learning to ski, my son quickly realized that someone would catch him with this method, so little effort was required on his part.

Fast-forward to this year, when we again hit the slopes together, but this time I decided to try a ski school since I couldn’t find the “tether” that we had borrowed the year previous. A very frustrated ski school teaching staff was burdened with a student that had been taught to ski in a limp form befitting of a escapee from a mortuary with ski’s attached. With a smile on his face, Joey would come off the top of the ‘conveyer’ (a great invention that someone should have thought of much earlier) at the top of the “bunny hill” and just fall over on the ground expecting some miraculous device or hands to hold him up and let him ski down the hill.

This was the truest definition of a ‘bad habit’ that had been given to my son in the previous year’s experience. What was I thinking?

After two hours of attempting to get him to teach my son how to ski, the patient instructors gladly returned him to my custody with an apology and the promise that further class sessions (something I’m sure they offered with great reluctance) would undoubtedly help.

Looking into the face of the full realization that my mistakes in mentoring had caused the current predicament, I set out to right this wrong. Determined, I ascended the hill with my son on the conveyor next to me with an internal will to teach my son something and gain results that correct the previous misleading direction. Time and time again, we descended the hill, with me on my knees trying to talk him through the actions: “now Joey, make me a great big huge piece of pizza” “now make it bigger” “EVEN BIGGER!”

At first, our progress was excruciatingly slow and in my own mind I’m starting to doubt my abilities and the thought of a nice warm car seat and quiet ride home are becoming a very tempting alternative.

Two things spring into my mind that cause me to reconsider and forge forward. First, the pain I felt the previous year is still prominent in my mind and a very real pain it is. So real, in fact, that I had popped several extra-strength Tylenol before heading out earlier. I don’t want to relive this pain in trying to teach Joey to ski ever again and this thought drives me to keep working with him to learn how to do this. Second is the thought of doubt that was cast by my wife years earlier when we were discussing the possible teaching of a musical nature to our then young son. She voiced a valid concern that not having spent much time as a drum teacher myself, I may not be the best prospect for teaching our son how to play something that means so very much to me. Not wanting to fail as a teacher and wanting to prove to not only myself by maybe also my wife that having great passion about something can lead us to be great as a teacher and a leader, I vow to not leave this slope until my son can ski.

An hour of patient work with Joey on that hill passes. I can feel some level of frustration starting to mount inside me at this point, yet the two psychological mantras keep putting me back on track and focusing my determination. Oddly enough, he is as focused on this as I am. In retrospective analysis from my daughters reaction to skiing, I’m amazed how brave and trusting he is about the even as a whole. No complaints, no whining, no not-wanting to try. The little guy is really giving it his best effort.

He looks at me and says: “Daddy, I really want to go on the bigger hills over there.” He points his finger at the four-seated “quad” lift that has been newly added since his father last visit to the resort some ten years prior.

“Well, buddy, if you can master stopping and turning, then you and I can go on there, but until we can learn how to do these, we can’t go there.”

Although he is somewhat understanding of the reasoning behind the requirement, he still voices his desire for a change in the current challenge level.

“Well, can we go over there to that rope?”

I give in at this point thinking that maybe learning the rope would help him understand the poise and position that we’re currently working on.

Now, in my mind, I figured the rope tow would be very easy to accomplish. You just grab and go, right?

We let the line clear in front of us before attempting this, yet I still think it is going to be an easy task.

I tell Joey to grab on tight to the rope and let it pull him up to the top of the hill and reaffirm that I will be following right behind him.

He grabs on.

In my late night musings of Discovery Channel shows to numb my brain enough to sleep, I’ve often come across a show called ‘Deadliest Catch’ where a film crew accompanies several crab-hunting crews on their cold water Alaskan endeavors. What I see in front of me is something a viewer would expect from one of those shows, save for the fact that what is being towed up in front of me is not a fish on a line being dragged out of the sea, but a four-year old laid out face first on the ground with his hands firmly gripping the rope.

He did exactly what I told him to do: he held onto the rope.

After clearing the rope line once I got him to let go of it, we both agreed that the conveyer would be a much better choice for the near future.

Fortunately, they have a much longer conveyor that ascends to the hilltop right next to the rope tow, albeit at the deficit of speed.

After the lengthy ride to the top, we both get off and again attempt descending the hill together, though, this time, Joey seems to understand more about what he is trying to do?

Did the drag on the ground behind the rope knock something lose here?

The “pizza slice” command diatribe quickly transforms into a more fun game of “red light, green light” as we play our way down the hill.

Within a half hours time, he is learning how to turn and even go through a small tunnel they’ve setup for the pupils.

Our fun unfortunately comes to an end after they close down the ski school and open the slopes up to the more aggressive older students and general public. We are now subject to snowboarders, people cutting through off the big hills, and just plain crazy people that thought a day on skis was a great way to avoid whatever other suicidal intentions I would have wished they would have pursued someplace other than near my son.

We both leave the slopes tired and exhausted, yet I am filled with a pride in my son for picking up something I didn’t think he could learn so quickly. I am also filled with pride in bucking the chains of limitations that surrounded my faith about my own abilities to give a gift of learning to my own offspring: I really can teach.

The following weekend, I retried this event with my three year old daughter, but hit a huge brick wall with her confidence. After a hour of attempting to convince her to try, both of us gave up and agreed that maybe skiing was something best left for daddy and Joey.

It breaks my heart to not be able to share this with her. I have visions of her being one of those cute “ski bunnys” that rarely dot the ski hills, but have profound impacts on their fathers outward confidence. I will again re-try this with her next year, and maybe a little more experience and confidence that comes with age will help her to persevere.

At this point, I can’t wait to get back out there and start “tearing up” the slopes with my son… well, only as much tearing as a forty pound snow-plowing child can do… I’m still happy either way.

jp