the    sides

I saw the stray ski pole. It’s common courtesy on the slopes to pick up items of a yard sale as you come across them and deliver them to their rightful owners. You’re going that direction anyway. Plus it’s hard and embarrassing going back uphill in ski boots to pick up the stuff you just got done spraying all over the mountain.

The victim was an 8 year old boy who looked like a Weeble-Wobble on skis. (All skiers when they first learn how to ski are classified in one of 3 possible categories: Giraffe On Skis, Weeble-Wobble On Skis, or a Squatter. Cooper and I were Giraffes. Camber was a Weeble-Wobble. Cayden was a Squatter - sitting low to the ground. These are NOT insults but rather rites of passage. In short, we’ve all been there. Except for Amy. No one has ever seen her fall on skis. (Regular walking is another matter altogether.) The theory goes that shortly after she was born she was skiing - before she walked or was even potty trained. But I digress.)

Then the dad opened his mouth.

“He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He can’t ski. He’s not getting it.”

I looked at him. I guess if I’d met him in church or at the lodge or at a ballgame, we’d be good friends or at the very least, friendly. He’d been normal…I guess. But we didn’t meet in any of those places. Instead we met here. He was acting like one of THEM - a frustrated parent on skis. A FruPaS.

I had multiple responses ready for him.

“Well whose fault is that, jack%$#! ?”

“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it?”

“It’s amazing. This 8-year old kid…drove himself to the mountains, rented his own skis, bought his own lift ticket, got on the lift for the first time and skied down to this point on the mountain ALL BY HIMSELF and in that kind of arrogance got no further no this!”

Indecision reigned in my mind. So I said nothing to him. I looked at the frustrated Weeble-Wobble. Sweat was pouring out of his helmet, couldn’t even stand up.

“I think I’m a little tired,” he heaved.

I chuckled, “No kidding!?”

I picked him up, got him steady, handed him his pole. I told him how to stop on his skis. I showed him how to do it. Then I watched him succeed at it. It took 5 minutes.

I high-fived him.

“Great job. Skiing is supposed to be fun. Every person you see on this mountain today was at one point in their life worse than you at skiing. Laugh every time you fall down today.”

Weeble-Wobble smiled.

I looked at FruPaS. I hadn’t said one word to him. I wanted to plant the pointed end of my ski pole in his forehead. I’d seen and experienced enough of his kind. They ruin everything. I wanted to repeat his words back to him. “You don’t get it. You can’t do this. You’re never going to get this.” I wasn’t talking about skiing. I’m not sure I was even really talking to him either. Maybe some cathartic release of my own baggage? Something worse than that? I didn’t just looked at him, I looked DOWN on him.

Before I could get anything out of my mouth, his eyes flashed up at me and said “Thank you……for me.”

That’s when He hit me. The FruPaS wasn’t a bad parent. He was a parent that needed more grace than his Weeble-Wobble on skis…and probably less than a judgmental parent that did black diamonds in his sleep.

I felt my shoulders shrug. “Dude…we’ve all been there. Have a fun day with your kid.”

I skied on realizing that of the three characters in the story of the last 15 minutes, I was the one that needed that “interruption” most.

Thank God for stray poles.