The Unfair Irrelevance of Eleven

Evan turned eleven today.  

ZZZZZZzzzzzz . . . 

Oh, wait, I mean, Happy Birthday, Evan.  Wow.  Eleven years old.  Way to go . . . that’s really . . .

Hey, remember last year when you turned ten!  Now that was a birthday for the ages, wasn’t it?!  A whole decade!  Two whole hands!  Yay for ten!  Good times, good times.  And now you say you’re eleven, huh?  That’s really . . . you know . . . great.  So, here’s a cupcake, kid, go run and play.  Come back next year when you’ll be twelve!  A whole dozen!  Won’t that be something?!  See you then!

What is it with the number eleven?  Stuck between the number upon which all numbers are based and the commercially appealing dozen, it’s so completely under-appreciated.  It’s so insignificant that of all the two-digit numbers it takes the least effort to even write.  A couple of slashes and your’re done.  That’s how much value we place on it.  It’s the “whatever” number.

The problem with eleven is that it has nothing to hang its hat on.  We’re number one, two’s company, three’s a crowd, four seasons, five fingers, six-packs, seven days a week, the eight ball, nine planets, a perfect 10! 

What’s eleven got?  There are twelve months and thirteen is lucky.  What does eleven have?  There’s no eleven of anything.  And even if by some horrible mistake you accidently end up with eleven of something and someone asks you how many you have, what do you say?  You don’t say, “I’ve got eleven!”  No, you say, “I don’t know, I’ve got like 10 or 12.”  We’re ashamed to associate ourselves with eleven.  We’re a bunch of numeralists against eleven.  We’re anti-XI.

In Evan’s case, we can attempt to manufacture a bit of excitement by saying, “Hey, guess what?  Your name rhymes with your age!  Isn’t that cool?  Huh?  Huh?”  Nope.  Already been there and done that.  Seven stole eleven’s thunder on that one four years ago.  Eleven’s got nothing new to offer.

It’s so bad that in the LDS church, now that Evan is eleven, we will keep him and others like him off to the side by themselves.  They won’t meet with the Bobcats or the Webelos or the Boy Scouts or any group of boys with a cool name.  No, they’ll meet in a special group we affectionately call “The 11-Year Old Scouts” as if to ensure there is no mistaking them.  They’ll be in that transitionary, awkward no-man’s land between Primary and Young Men when the best thing we can think to do with them is to keep them away from the other boys.  After all, they’re eleven.  We don’t want that rubbing off on anyone.

Now some may say, “Hey, what about 9/11?  Eh?  Eh?  That put eleven on the map.”  I’m sure the number eleven is very grateful to the terrorists for this.  They had thirty-one days to pick from, and they chose eleven.  Like eleven didn’t have enough troubles.  In the words of Miracle Max, “Why don’t you just give me a nice paper cut, and poor lemon juice on it?”  I bet eleven was always picked last when the numbers got together to play.

Face it, who remembers their eleventh birthday?  You remember ten.  You remember twelve.  You remember thirteen because you were a teenager.  You remember sweet sixteen.  But nobody remembers eleven.  Did you have a cake?  Probably not.  You know why?  Candles come in packs of ten, and your mother couldn't bring herself to buy a whole extra pack.  "We'll have a cake next year when it’s a real birthday," she said.  Or if you did have a cake, there were probably ten new candles and that short burnt one she found in the back of the kitchen drawer.  Evan got a dozen donuts this year for his birthday cake - an ironically cruel reminder of eleven's more famous neighbor.  He did have eleven candles, but only because he had a sister that turned nine this year, and the math worked out.  Enjoy it while you can, Evan.  Because years from now when the real birhdays happen, you just won't remember this one.  Poor, poor eleven.

And so, for a whole year now, when people will ask us how old Evan is, will we ashamedly murmur, "I don't know, he's like 10 or 12 or something?"  Or will we have courage and say with pride, "He's eleven!"  Time will tell.  We must learn to fight our own numeralism, and embrace eleven as if it were just like the rest of the numbers (even though we know it isn't.)

Well, as I wrap this up, know that we love you, Evan, despite your age.  We know you will always aspire to be more than eleven.  But for now, you go be eleven and be proud, son.  Happy Birthday!  It's getting late and I need to publish this before your birthday is over or it won't be much of a birthday wish, will it?  You know me, I always do my best work in the eleventh hour.

Hey . . . wait.

Birds, Bees & Other Unmentionables

For the last time, it was that time, again.  I had to have "the talk" with one of my sons.

I had been getting hints from Christy for quite some time, but I kept putting it off.  It's not a comfortable thing.  Very rarely do two such simple words instill such fear in the hearts of men: "the" and "talk."  Really, who came up with this whole idea anyway?  Could anything be any more difficult to explain to an unwitting innocent child?

Of course, I would have put it off further, but we got the letter from school.  The one that you have to sign saying its okay for the school to teach your child about the Reproductive System.  I couldn't send my son into that clinic of giggles and finger pointing without some preparation, some knowledge that would help it all make sense, so that he wouldn't have to ask the teacher for a bucket to get sick in.

You've got to remember what its like to be a fifth grader.  I kind of remember getting "the talk" from my own father.  We were riding in the car and he was trying to drive and explain at the same time while making hand gestures like some sort of wild puppet show from heck.  But I appreciated that father-son moment, I appreciated his effort, as difficult as it must have been for him, and most of all, I didn't ask for a bucket to get sick in.  Of course, like every kid, I already knew all about it by the time my father got around to telling me the facts of life.  In fact, I was giving "the talk" to my friends, all poor unenlightened sons of procrastinating fathers, ever since - well, the fifth grade.  So, at least I had that experience to fall back on.

I also had two older sons who got "the talk" but I'm not even sure they remember it.  Some folks tend to block out unpleasant memories, myself included.  I think one was in a fast food restaurant, and one was on a drive somewhere.  (Without the fancy puppet show, of course.  I believe "the talk" was never intended to be a multi-media event.)  Of course, one of my sons claims we never had "the talk,", but I'm sure he's wrong.  I'm equally sure that a lot of dads think they are giving "the talk" when actually, when all is said and done, their sons walk away with no clue what the old man was mumbling about.

And so, the day of reckoning arrived, and I was going to make sure I did it right -- at least once.  I asked my son if he'd like to go on a walk.  His little sister responded first, with much enthusiasm.

"No, you can't come with us, sweetie."
"Why not?"
"Because I need to talk to your brother."
"About what?"
"Uh.  Something.  It's a secret."
"I want to know!  Can you tell me the secret?!"

I was already blowing it and we weren't even out the door yet.  After some promises that her mommy would tell her later (much later), my son and I started off around the neighborhood.  We walked, we small talked, and we walked some more, and all the while I was wondering, where do I begin this conversation that overlays its devilish designs upon mere innocent souls?

Wait, what did he just say? Something about an animal or plant or something.  Birds, bees, flowers.  There's my opening.  I never really thought that would work, but I'll take it.

"So," I said casually, yet with all manliness, "what do you know about how flowers make other flowers."  He knew all about it and gave me a lecture on pollen and chlorophyll and some other stuff, which may or may not have been correct.  I wasn't really listening - I was planning my next move.

"And so, animals are like plants.  They have to make other animals, right?"
"Yeah, I guess so."
"And do you know how they do that?"
"Sure.  Well, maybe.  Uh . . . not really."

At this point, I had my big question ready.  The one I had rehearsed in front of the mirror and that would make it all make sense, that would bring it to a spiritual level and enlighten my son with truth.

"Do you know the one god-like power that Heavenly Father gave us?"
"Ummm . . . repentance?" 

That's my boy.  Go back to the primary basics when you have no idea what the answer is.

"No, not repentance.  He gave us the power to create life, and its inside of me and its inside of you."

I was on a roll now.  From there I explained the power, and its sacredness, and how it was only to be used at a certain time and never before then.  I talked about why boys are attracted to girls and vice versa.  We talked about how boys and girls are different and how bodies change when they get older, and how boys and girls want to be close to each other when they are in love.  It was all starting to make sense, even to me.

And then we got to the part where I had to get into the details.  And that's where I sort of stumbled a bit.

"And so you've heard of this thing called 'sex' right?"
"Oh yeah, I know all about that." 

For a moment I believed him.  What goes around, comes around.  Some other fifth grader had gotten the jump on me.

"Really?  Well what do you know about it?"
"Um, well.  Uh . . . I don't really know about it."
"You hear about it on TV, and probably your friends talk about it, huh?"
"Yeah."
"Well, what it is, is . . ."

And then the moment was upon me.  I had to tell him.  He was going to learn about it sooner or later.  I had worked up to it with all the proper prefaces, all the importance of how it was sacred, and only reserved for married people, and that it was natural and it was okay, and one day it would all make sense.  I had done all I could to prepare him for this revelation, this right of passage.  And so, without any puppet shows, I told him using just plain words.  Then I waited for a response, but received none.  So, I told him again, just to make sure he understood.  He remained silent.  I said, it'll make more sense when you're older.  Still nothing.  I said, you'll actually WANT to do that someday, with an emphasis on the someday being after he was married.  Silence. 

And then, it occurred to me.  It was sinking in.  Innocence was fading before my eyes, but I had succesfully done my duty as a father.  The knowledge of generations was passed on.  We had gotten through it.  My youngest boy was growing up.  Ahh, I had done it, and he had survived unscarred!

After a few moments, as I basked in the glory of a job well done, I sensed he wanted to speak.  What would he say?  Thanks, dad, you're the greatest?  Wow, dad, you've enlightened my soul?  Gosh, dad, never have such challenging thoughts been expressed so eloquently?  What words of newfound wisdom would come forth?

And then he broke the silence.  "Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"I think I need a bucket."

All Hail The Mighty Regis

Somewhere out in Hollywood is an Irish punk band called The Mighty Regis.  Before today, none of us had ever heard of them.  Never listened to their music, although I understand they have just released their third album.  And yet, Abbie is now the proud owner of an authentic TMR sweatshirt.  How she came to acquire this unique article of clothing may be akin to one of the band's songs, aptly titled "Walking Around Lucky."

Well, maybe it wasn't the luck of the Irish so much. In fact, if we trace it back far enough, it all began with a very unfortunate and tragic event - the most unfortunate event imaginable.  Several years ago, the life of a young and energetic Cary High School student named Kassel Smit was tragically cut short at the tender age of 16.  In his memory, his parents established the Kassel Smit Make A Difference Scholarship, to award Cary High Students who, in their opinion, helped to make a difference in other people's lives, and who exemplified the characteristics that made up Kassel's personality.  Ths list of characteristics are long: creativity, sensitivity, respect, inquisition, exploration, fairness, giving, leadership, learning, fun, humor and love.  I'm humbled by his parents willingness to turn heartache into charity, and sadness into triumph.

We are taught that pride is a root cause of great deal of evil in the world, and so I try to avoid it when I can.  But does that mean parents can't be proud of their children?  I don't claim any credit for my children's accomplishments, but I am so happy for them when their accomplishments are recognized.  But what makes me happiest of all is when someone recognizes my child, not for what they've done, but for who they've become.

Abbie was awarded the Kassel Smit scholarship at Cary High this year.  To me, this was far more significant than any leading role in a play, any solo in a concert, and any recognition for being the best at doing something.  They saw her for who she truly is, a kindred spirit of Kassel himself, possessing all the qualities that make up a loving, hard-working and charitable individual.

Today is Kassel's 24th birthday.  We attended the annual picnic in his honor, which helps to raise the funding necessary to continue the scholarship.  There were over a hundred people in attendance.  As part of the evening, Kassel's parents gave out door prizes by drawing random tickets purchased at the door.  Prize after prize was given away - gift certificates to local restaurants, coffee mugs, loaves of gourmet bread, t-shirts, hats, etc.  We knew that we had already won the best prize of all, and were not concerned about winning anything further.  But when Mr. Smit held up one of the final items -- a warm looking sweatshirt, Abbie became a bit interested, as she had long winters to look forward to at BYU.

The sweatshirt had been donated by The Mighty Regis, along with CD's, t-shirts and a hat.  How is it The Mighty Regis has an interest in the Kassel Smit Scholarship?  Very simple. Kassel's older brother is a member of the band.

When Abbie's ticket number was pulled to win the sweatshirt, Mr. Smit recognized her as the recipient of the scholarship, and simply said, "Perfect."  Sometimes, who you are is enough to bring great blessings, and sometimes, its good just to be "Walking Around Lucky."  Abbie has both on her side.

We wish success to her at BYU, to the Smit family in their continued charity, and of course, to The Mighty Regis!

146 Years

Justin turned 20 years old last month.  So, on his birthday, I went out and bought Christy twenty roses.  She's the one who did all the work twenty years ago.  Justin sort of just had to show up and be baby-like.  Pretty easy gig for a baby.

Nothing against Justin, of course.  He was a great first baby, and will always hold that place of honor in our hearts.  While he was cutting his teeth on us, we were sort of cutting our teeth on him, and he probably suffered the most because of it.  But he's also the only of our five children who ever received our undivided attention - even if it was for only two years until Abbie showed up -- again, with Christy doing all the work.  Christy always does all the work.

But twenty years is a milestone for any parent.  In fact, the way I see it, we reached the 20 year mark many years ago.  You see, each kid is different and requires a completely separate set of parenting skills, and so parenting as a father is different from parenting as a mother.  So, by my calculations, our combined years of experience in raising our five children is now 20 years each for Justin, 18 years each for Abbie, 16 years each for Alec, 10 years each for Evan and 9 years each for Maya.  Add that up, and its 146 years -- almost a century and a half of parenting between the two of us.

And what have we learned in those 146 years?  Let me share a few observations:

• Children hold secret meetings to share best practices in confusing their parents, and part of their strategy is to ensure that any effective parenting techniques are immediately identified, quarantined, and strategically neutralized against further parental success.
• Children have the unique mental capacity to alter their own memories, erasing any neurological evidence of wrongdoing.  This accounts for their ability to create convincing and plausible stories, even in the face of eye-witnesses and video surveillance.
• If you ever think you're doing a good job as a parent, just wait a few minutes.
• Children today are capable of successfully texting their friends, watching TV, listening to iTunes, monitoring Facebook, and doing homework all at the same time.  But as soon as a parent speaks, they miraculously lose their ability to focus.
• The child in its natural habitat will demonstrate strong aversions to laundry detergent, bringing in groceries without being asked, turning off lights, and tightening caps on soda bottles.
• A child's potential is indirectly proportional to his or her high score in Angry Birds.
• No matter how bad children may act, and despite the myriad of poor decisions they may make, when it comes down to it, you wouldn't trade your kids for anybody else's.  Besides, my research has determined that child-trading is frowned upon in most societies.

This November after Evan and Alec age up a year, we will reach our 150-year milestone as parents.  While it would be reasonable to expect our children to celebrate this historic and momentous occasion with us, I expect that they will instead focus on more important things, like birthday cake and ice cream that they did not bring in from the car, Facebook postings and text messages about the latest KASP (Kids Against Successful Parenting) meeting, the new version of Angry Birds Gone Wild, and a good story as to why the kitchen light is on and the cap is off the Sprite.

But, we still won't trade them.  They make cute Christmas card pictures.  And, we do love them, after all.

Happy belated birthday, Justin!

Xylophones Played In The Distance

I'm not what you'd call a normal father.  To me, a normal father is more like my own father.  He got up every morning, shaved, drank his coffee, put on his white dress shirt and tie and went to work.  Then he came home, took off his tie, sat at the head of our dinner table, drank his coffee, and talked about serious worky kind of things.  We were all kind of afraid of him, because his word was law, and we either obeyed or paid the hefty consequences.

I'm not that kind of father.  I work out of the house, shave when I have to, never drink coffee, and only put on the dress shirt when I venture out into the cold cruel world.  We don't have a head at our table, and I hardly ever talk about work during dinner.  And as for my word, it's not really the law.  Maybe more of a local ordinance.  Kind of like the one way lanes in the mall parking lot.  Folks only pay attention when its convenient.

My kids don't look at me and say to their friends, "There goes my father.  I respect him deeply."  Instead, they say, "There goes that weird guy who lives with us.  Let's try to avoid him."  That's what they say when their friends are around.  But when it's just us, they secretly like me the way I am.  I bring an element of fun, comic relief and creativity to family life.

For example, when Abbie was younger, we would pass the time away playing several improv games.  We would talk with funny accents and carry on imaginary conversations.

DAD:  "Hiya, Abbie.  What's ya doings?"
ABBIE:  "Milking a cow, daddy.  What're yer doing?"
DAD:  "Hunting squirrels.  There's one. DIE, SQUIRREL, DIE!"

Uplifting things like that.  Sometimes Alec would be with us, but Alec wouldn't participate.  He would just sit there and wish he were somewhere else.  He's so strange.

One of our favorite games was the alphabet game.  In the alphabet game, one of us would pick a letter of the alphabet, and the other would then have to begin a story in which the first word began with that letter.  We'd then move to the next letter, and the next person would continue the story.  It'd go something like this.

ABBIE:  Let's start with U.
DAD:  Unable to put it off any longer, Charlie bundled up in his blanket, and headed out into the cold night.
ABBIE: Very cold and wet, he searched in the darkness for a pair of glowing eyes.
DAD:  Within a few minutes, while the cold crept into his bones, he saw the eyes staring at him from the edge of the forest.
ABBIE: Xylophones played in the distance . . .

Xylophones playing in the distance were a favorite dramatic motif of ours, and found their way into all of our stories.  (What else are you going to do with X?)  We would continue until we had used all the letters and wrapped up the story in a neat little package.  Now, because Alec never played along, to this day, he is still unable to alphabetize his conversations on the fly.

Abbie and I have no problem with this.  Because, as I've explained, we've had so many years of practice.  Creativity now comes easily to Abbie, as evidenced by her many artistic skills.  Drama, music, painting, writing, snowcraft, marshmallow sculptures, and soap carving are just a few.  Eventually, we expect her creative skills to lift her to unimagined heights, or maybe just a brief stint as the first female Blue Man Group member.  For what its worth, that's actually not a bad idea.  Girls should be allowed to be Blue Men, don't you think?  How in the world can we teach our daughters to aspire to greatness when there are artificial ceilings within the BMG hierarchy?  I think she should actually start the first Blue Woman Group.  Just sort of go for it, you know.  Keep the same sort of shtick, but with a female flair.  Lose the blue, maybe, and go with pink or teal.  Maybe some would say that's sort of sexist, but I'm just picking random colors out of the air.  No need to take offense.  Of course, any color would do, except for white, because people might confuse WWG with a wrestling federation, and that wouldn't do.  Perhaps, though, I should get back on topic.  Quietly and somewhat irresponsibly, I've allowed this blog entry to meander and drift into meaningless babble.  Rather than continue in this non-sensical vein, I suggest we somehow try to make sense of all this.  So many times, we tend to go to great lengths to make a point.  Then we realize, that all this talk of blue men and wrestling and snow art was just a side show - a distraction from the true intent of our discussion.  Unless I stop now, though, I think I'm going to disprove my original theory - that years of playing the alphabet game has somehow allowed me to pull off an alphabetic conversation like this one, and that you'd never notice until I pointed it out to you.  Veal, yummm.  Well, on that very sad note, there's only one thing left to say.

Xylophones played in the distance.

Yeah.  Zorry about that.

March Gladness

We follow the NCAA Mens' Basketball Tournament around here pretty closely.  It's usually just me and Alec tracking our Tarheels, with Christy mumbling something about, "I hate Carolina" or "Why don't they let someone else win sometimes?" as if all the world would be happy if each school simply took turns being NCAA champions.  Wouldn't that be exciting?  March Drabness.

I see her point, though.  Carolina hasn't lost an NCAA tournament game since losing to Kansas in the Final Four in 2008.  Of course, they didn't play in the tournament in 2010, because, as everyone knows, no NCAA tournament took place that year.  Was there even a champion named that year?  Who can remember?

But this year is different.  We have a legitimate tournament again now that the Tarheels are back in it.  And, there's a special interest from one BYU alumni in our house, and another who was recently accepted there.  In fact, there's more than a little interest.  There's a little bit of over-confidence, if you ask me.



Christy's Dream T-Shirt



When Christy filled out her bracket this year, she went straight to the center and wrote, in big letters, "BYU."  Then she added commentary such as, "Shall the youth of Zion falter?" and "Onward Christian Soldier" and "True to the Faith."  From there, she filled out the rest of her bracket, choosing teams to win based on how she liked the sound of their names, paying absolutely no attention to seedings, won-lost records, conferences, experience or strength of schedule.

The result after the first weekend?  I got 8 of the Sweet 16 correct.  Christy got 11.

I can accept that.  It was a wild weekend.  And with my Heels still alive, and Christy's Cougars looking strong, all is well for the moment.  At least for this week, there will be March Gladness in our home.  Hope abounds with both UNC and BYU in the Sweet 16.  On a collision course with destiny, perhaps?  Could it be a UNC-BYU final?  Could Abbie's college choice be dependent on whether Jimmer can outscore Barnes?  Will a Rose bloom in Texas, or will Ol' Roy bring home another for the trophy case?

As such dreams play out in my head, March Gladness turns to March Badness.  This sort of final would be a bad idea.  Christy asked me recently who I would root for in a UNC-BYU game.  I laughed.  She didn't. 

You see, in her mind, Carolina has enough championships.  In my mind, the words "enough" and "championships" are never in the same sentence.  So, to preserve our marriage, here is my vow:  I will hope that both teams independently go the distance, while at the same time praying both teams don't actually go the distance at the same time -- sort of non-independently, or somewhat non-exclusively from each other, so to speak, in general unequivocal, if notwithstanding unambiguous, terms.  That's my story, at least.  That should make it clear where I stand on the issue.

Of course, in all honesty, I think we're both in for some March Sadness.  I don't think either of them will really go the distance this year.  My bracket has Kansas cutting down the nets.  But, as proven after the first weekend, I'm only right half the time.  Christy, on the other hand, well, she's right 69% of the time.

Hmmm.

Onward Christian soldier . . .

Going Downhill Fast

We hit the slopes a couple of weekends ago.

I've always wanted to say that.  It sounds so healthy and athletic, like we're a family on the move, who grabs life by the horns and wrestles it to the ground and spits in its face.  That's right, we hit the slopes.  What'd you do, stay home and watch TV all weekend?  Ha!  We are so with it.

In all honesty, it was Christy's idea.  I was looking forward to staying home and watching TV.  But she got us going, and we can now proudly say that we hit the slopes!

But, after doing it, I have found that saying you hit the slopes is more fun than actually hitting the slopes.  Slopes are kind of hard, rough and cold.  Trust me on that one.  I became fairly well acquainted with them.  We're like old friends now.  The kind of friends that are okay with going long periods of time between visits.

The kids had a day off from school, so we drove up to Boone the night before and lodged at the five-star Fairfield Inn & Suites.  (Did you ever notice how Fairfield Inn & Suites never actually has any suites?)  We then arose early and drove up to Sugar Mountain.  We had borrowed a whole bunch of "ski gear" from my sister-in-law, Laura.  I think she can open her own ski shop someday.  Mostly it was stuff to keep us warm and dry, which proved useful.

So, we checked in and got our boots, but I don't think they were the kind that Nancy Sinatra sang about.  From there, I felt like Steve Martin in The Jerk.  I'm ready to go skiing, and I don't need anything else, except these skis.  And that's it!  I don't need anything else . . . I need these poles.  But that's it!  The skis and the poles!  I don't need anything else!  And this lift ticket, I need that.  But that's it!  That's all I need!  Oh, I need this ski school ticket.  But that's all!  The skis, the poles, the lift ticket, and the school ticket, and nothing else!  I don't need one other thing!  I need Evan's and Maya's skis, since they can't carry them.  But that's it!  Oh, and this lamp . . .

Justin, having spent a college semester in Boone already, grabbed a snowboard and took off.  He had no trouble heading right for the big hills, and enjoyed several great runs.  The rest of us went to the little hill and ski school.  There we learned about the pizza and the french fries.  For those not familiar with these technical skiing terms, I'll sum it up for you.  The more pizza and french fries you've eaten, the less likely you are to come to a graceful stop.  But we learned how to navigate while on skis - turning left and right and such, albeit in a very confined area where we had little chance of injuring the other paying customers.  Surprisingly, none of us fell down even once in ski school, which turned out to be a very bad thing, since we then never learned how to get back up.

We all graduated from ski school.  We had always hoped that someday a Martschenko would graduate from Boone, and so that dream is now fulfilled!  We were confident and ready to venture off on our own.  And from that point on, I believe we all had somewhat different experiences.

Evan took to it immediately.  He loved it, and was ready to hit the bigger hills pretty quickly.  I believe by the end of the day, he made more runs than anyone.  Abbie also did fairly well, with her sunglasses and long hair flowing behind her, she looked like a natural.  I expected her ability to go down hills would be impaired by her stair climbing deficiency syndrome (SCDS), but she did okay.  Alec, always the tentative one, took it a bit slower.  Like his father, the pizza and fries were a handicap.  But he eventually managed to make a few decent runs.  And Christy and Maya showed the greatest improvement of all, having feared the big hill in the morning, they overcame by the afternoon, and made us all proud.

What I took away from the day was that skiing is less about trying to go downhill, and more about trying to not go downhill.  The comfort and peace of the ski lift is quickly and violently replaced with five minutes of pure horror. 

But there were times, brief moments I must say, when it actually felt good to be flying downhill.  One time I passed Abbie at breakneck speed and yelled, "See ya!"  All she could muster was an incredulous "No way!"  I was really flying, not because I wanted to, you see, I just didn't know how to slow down.  The benefit, I thought, was that I was going to beat Abbie to the bottom of the hill and become the true skiing champion of the family.  Of course, there's only one way this story ends.  Another fifty yards and I completely wiped out in a mangled mass of arms legs and ski gear.  No worries, I thought, my loving daughter would be by any second to help me up.  In fact, there she comes now to my rescue.  My sweet kind-hearted daughter.

Swoosh, swoosh.  "Ha, ha.  I win."  Swoosh. Gone.  Just like that.  Heartless. 

If there's one thing I hate more than a face full of snow, it's losing to Abbie.

Despite the agony of this defeat, in general, we can call the day a success.  Seven of us.  No broken bones.  And despite the fact that my experience in going downhill fast showed me how fast I'm going downhill, I'll always be able to say it.  Yeah, we hit the slopes.

Now, what's on TV this weekend?