TheMommyBlog

Sunday, December 09, 2007 Family

We took two of the kids to see Fred Claus this weekend in an effort to help them stop comparing their boring old weekend with the FUN, EXCITING trip Dylan was taking with his dad to the train museum in Sackatomatoes. We also went to the sale at Macy’s and bought a new, red couch to celebrate my not having to go to the train museum with them. Furthermore, we all went ice skating at Christmas in the Park and Valley of a Thousand Storage-weary Christmas Decorations in downtown San Jose.

All I can say is: ice, cold, ouch, hurts.

The kids seemed okay in their whatever-goes shoe fitting universe, but as they only rented skates in whole sizes I had to choose between the size nine Cruel Shoes or the size ten Death Traps. I didn’t think it would matter much, as I planned to spend the entire time skating at a snail’s pace along the railing, helping Daphne to recapture the glory of her debut on that same rink last year with her dad. Everyone said she was a brilliant skater, that they couldn’t believe how well she did after moments on the ice, that she could spin and pair-lift and do both parts of the Iron Lotus, but in reality she was a fifty-pound weight at the end of my arm, yanking and pulling and dislocating my shoulder each time she lost her balance.

“Mom! Quit dragging me!”

“Do you want me to hold your hand?”

“Yes.”

“And do you want me to try to keep you from landing hard on the ice and getting your bottom all wet?”

“Yes.”

“Then I have to drag you. I’m sorry. If I could stop on a dime I’d be on a box of Wheaties.” That was in addition to the Mexican Hat Dance I performed every time she slipped so that I wouldn’t skate over her fingers and doom her to a beggar’s life as a friendless child living off the sale of water colors painted using the scarred stub of a hand I left her. I came very, very close to bringing her fingers home in a baggie, pink nail polish and all.

So, between playing Marionette on Ice and trying to avoid severed bits, my ankles wobbled like a Weeble with every stride. I know it’s only half a size, but MY GOD these skates were roomy. I nearly snapped the laces tying them up and still couldn’t get that Army Boot feeling that meant I was less likely to shatter an ankle turning my head to talk with someone.

Meanwhile, Logan skated circles around us (no he didn’t) and seemed very much at home in his hockey rentals. I was just happy I won the argument against bringing a hockey stick. He’s never played hockey in his life, but all of a sudden he’s got to be Bobby Orr at the Downtown Ice Circle of Palms. It was totally worth the thirty-eight dollars to get in.

Oh! Hygiene. Okay, I don’t know how to say this because someone will get mad at me, but those skates, especially the laces, smelled like a homeless guy. Maybe from the thousands of body oils rubbing off on them throughout the skating season. Do homeless people have thousand of people wiping their body oils on them? No? The maybe that’s not a fair analogy.

Those skates smelled like a drunken sailor on shore leave. Not that I’ve ever had the pleasure, but I’m fairly convinced I can cross that never before endured olfactory experience off my list. It’s got to be close enough. The only thing that’s ever come close to this smell was the greasy patches left on the windows of the El train in Chicago from people falling asleep with their heads to one side. I rode two trains and two buses across town to get to high school, so I know whereof I speak. NEVER rest your head on the window. You may need a solvent to get up again.

At any rate, after we’d traded the skates for our blessedly stable shoes, I was never so happy to see a Port-a-Potty in my life. “Kids! Soap and water! Let’s go! We’ve got to wash up after all that exiting ice skating!” I must have squirted soap on their hands three or four times. Each time they looked about to walk away, I squirted more so they’d have to go through the rinsing all over again. Sue me.

Later, as I lay in a heap in the big yellow chair waiting to pass out from the soreness, Logan and Daphne went with Phil to get a Christmas tree. The kids picked out a stunner, I have to say, even though it was on the ground when they chose it— it got even better when they stood it up. Logan helped tie it up for the trunk, and Daphne watched for cars.

In the meantime. Dylan peeked around the doorway at me when his dad dropped him off, and threw himself into my arms in the chair, breathing in my skin and hugging me tightly.