First chairlift ride: Not in the
baby book, but still significant
I
don’t remember Liam’s first steps.
I
remember Jacob tentatively making his way from Bill to me across our dining
room, and Jamie taking hers outside on our driveway. I remember Teenasia’s huge smile
as she made her way from Bill to me, using the exact same route Jacob had six
years before her. But Liam’s first steps are a blank.
I
don’t quite understand why it is that some “firsts” are etched in my memory
while others float away. I think some of it has to do with how much
anticipation I have before the milestone. Jacob, Jamie and Teenasia all walked
relatively late — 14 or 15 months. For all of them, I had been waiting for the
first steps for quite awhile, hovering in a state somewhere between patience
and concern. Liam, on the other hand, earned the nickname “baby-on-the-move”
very young. He started crawling at five
months and picked up alarming speed every day. By the time he learned to walk,
probably around 11 or 12 months, I was already trying to slow him down. When he
broke his leg at 14 months, he gave up walking for a few hours before learning
to balance on the edge of the cast on his foot and propel himself around with a
strange-looking, yet surprisingly effective gait.
Other
milestones have similar gaps in my memory. Despite the fact that our family
skis every winter, I have no memory of either of my boys going on the chairlift
for the first time. I remember taking them both up the rope tow, my inner
thighs shaking with the effort of holding them between my knees as we were
pulled up the hill. I remember Liam slipping away from me going down a hill at
age three and careening into a hay bale at the bottom. I remember noting that
Jacob as a new skier skied the way he did everything else-- quietly and
deliberately, with few risky moves. But I have no memory of that first
chairlift.
So
this past weekend, when we took all the kids skiing, I was not expecting the
chairlift to be a defining milestone moment. Jamie, four and Teenasia, six, spent all
of Saturday in a children’s ski school while Bill and I skied with the boys.
Then, on Sunday, we left the boys to ski on their own — Jacob in a hat and Liam
in a helmet— and took the girls from their children’s bunny slope to Maple
Syrup, the next easiest run on the hill. We decided that Bill would take the
girls on the chairlift one at a time, since he is better than I at skiing in
general and no child has ever crashed into a hay bale on his watch.
Jamie
and I took our place at the bottom of the Maple Syrup chairlift, so we could
watch Bill and T get on. My hope in doing this was so that Jamie could see the
technique, so she’d be prepared for her turn. As I watched Teenasia move up the line,
toward the lift, though, I began to feel much as I remembered feeling when she
took her first steps. I was awed by this little girl approaching the chairlift
so confidently. How could she do this? On Friday, T had not even known what
skiing was. I had to explain to her that it consisted of strapping on long,
thin boards to special boots and going down a big, big hill. It sounded crazy
when I explained it, but I didn’t have a picture handy. T had nodded and said
it sounded fun.
Since
re-entering our home two months before as a foster child, Teenasia had experienced so
many firsts. She was up for anything. Some firsts, like eating grapes and
grapefruit, were long overdue. Others, like learning to ice skate and read a
few words, were the same firsts other children her age were experiencing. As
the operator held the chair steady and she sat down, I decided that six years
old was probably early for a first chairlift. I wondered if anyone who lived in
T’s previous neighborhood had ever ridden a chairlift.
Bill
put his arm around Teenasia and the chair glided upward. Jamie and I waved at their
backs as the chair climbed. Up, up, up. Teenasia, safe in the hold of an expert skier.
Teenasia, so far from where she had been two months ago. Climbing high in the morning
sunlight. So safe.
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