firsts

This blog has been full of firsts, so it seems like a good place to start. But this is a new kind of first. This is a first when my child -- the girl I grew and fed and helped walk and talk -- surpassed me. Just started in her completely brand new way and, in a matter of weeks, conquered something that continues to completely allude me.

My daughter can ski.

My daughter can ski faster than I can. With more confidence, with a giant smile, while singing Disney songs.


I am dumbfounded.

She's been in lessons every Saturday since the new year. I haven't been too involved with them, as skiing is really Jeff's thing. In fact, it's really not my thing at all. I seem to return to skiing in some symbolic way again and again. It represents all sorts of things that seem to cause me anxiety and fear in a deep and profound way. Fear of being out of control. Fear of being cold. Fear of injury. Fear of not being able to do something that everyone else can do. Everyone else loves to do. Fear that there is something just a little bit wrong with me because I just can't seem to suck it up and go for it.

It's been nine years of this crap. Nine years ago I began my first series of lessons. I was a teacher, learning with the kindergarteners. Really. I remember so vividly following them down the road that I followed Eliana down yesterday. I remember how narrow and short the switchbacks seemed. Do you even call them switchbacks? Runs. I really don't know. I really don't care. But I do. Or I wouldn't be writing this.

So I'm going down that road. Wait. I have to back up.

I'm headed up the chair lift on a sunny Sunday, sitting behind my daughter. Watching her tiny, short legs dangle down, Jeff's arm around her waist. I'm content breathe in the blue sky, my first time on the chair lift in a year, I feel strong and fine. I'm not really thinking that much about what's about to happen.

And then I see the yellow sign that reminds me to keep my tips up and I start to feel that familiar anxiety in my belly. Shit. Do I put the tips up now? What if the next chair hits me from behind and I fall over. What if I get hit in the head with that big blue metal bar and I can't go to work tomorrow. What if I can't...

And then Elie and Jeff are off and...phew...I'm off. Jeff wants to go to the next chair and head to the tippy top of the already very steep mountain. I'm thinking of all the reasons why we should just head down. But I want to act cool and show Eliana that I'm totally down with this whole thing. That I'm just like her.

For whatever good reason, we decide to head down. I like this little stretch of the mountain. It's wide and familiar and I've had positive experiences here. Eliana and Jeff take the lead. I'm kinda watching her, kinda trying to get back my groove and then, before I can really process anything, she's gone. Just like that. She's flown down some, dare I say, cliff like thing and is just rocketing down the mountain. Little short legs, all squatty and weird like some freakish snow creature. It's really, really wild to watch. And there I am, literally shaking my head, literally jaw dropped, making my annoying wide, careful turns, trying to keep her in view. Until I can't anymore because I'm too damn slow.

So we continued like this. And as my amazement died down, as I got more used to seeing my child kick my ass, my anxiety grew. At first I thought I was worried about her, but then I realized, I had supreme faith in her. It was me that was causing the tick. We came to the aforementioned road and I felt so frustrated with my fear that at the end of every stretch I'd just fly off the side if I didn't screech to a halt and turn around. I became annoyed that I wouldn't just let my self fly down the road like my child, belt out a show tune, let my hair soak up the sunshine. I became annoyed that they wouldn't wait for me, that I was so lame and old and, well, lame.

But really it was still about Eliana. She was amazing, this was for her, she was rocking.

Then we came to the part that I really abhor. Abhor is a super strong word that does not enter my vernacular with any frequency. I don't abhor much. But this last "bowl" starts out really, really steep. You can see the lodge from the top, you know you are almost there. It also feels super public and exposed and I'm supremely self-conscious while on downhill skis. So I'm at the top of this bowl and I watch Eliana launch her little body. Hurl her little body down the side of the mountain. She eats it, laughs, eats another fist full of snow, laughs again, donkey's her way back to standing. I'm more focused on her than on me, though I'm kinda using her as an excuse not to move forward. Each time I think about getting closer to her, I realize how steep it is and just sort of halt. I begin to side step down the mountain. I begin to panic. I begin to curse. I think I said, "I hate this! I hate this! I hate this!" just a few times. And she continued to fly and flop and laugh. Sol was waiting at the bottom. Elie and Jeff were halfway down. I had to make that first big, scary turn. There was no choice (short of taking off my skis and sliding on my bum which, I have done). So I took my first, tentative turn. And another. And finally I was making my lame ascent towards my daughter.

When we finally got to the bottom, I tried to look all cool gliding up to the lodge, I took in the confidence that my girl was exuding. She was like an old pro. She was so in it. In her body, in her skill, in the moment. There was no anxiety, trepidation, fear of injury or failure or extreme frustration.

Just supreme presence. Joy. Energy. Pulse.


I want to say that I learned this huge lesson from her. That once I saw my four year old tear it up down the hill, I too followed suite. But this isn't how it happened. Instead, I began to accept that maybe, just maybe, I'll never feel the way she feels. I'll never not have anxiety or fear or a feeling that I just so don't belong. I feel the same way playing most team sports. I was the last o be picked in gym class. I've always known what I can do well and stuck pretty closely to variants on the same equation. That seems to be my style. I've always liked my style.

What I can say, is that I am incredibly proud of her. I want to honor this first of my daughter's. Celebrate her. She humbles me. Makes me take pause. Floods me with deep and unwavering pride. It is an honor to be her mama.