Sunday, November 28, 2010

Happy Un-Thanksgiving!

After publishing a post complaining about our over scheduled holiday plans, I ironically found myself suddenly faced with the prospect of a Thanksgiving Day with no plans whatsoever, no family or friends or feast even. The idea was both relaxing and somewhat depressing at the same time. This would be the first time since I could remember when there would be no flurry of activities to prepare for a huge elaborate mostly-home-cooked meal, no frenzied rush to hide dirty laundry and put out clean bath towels, no frantic scuffle out the door racing down a chilly road to someone's home before the turkey was carved. In fact, since none of us are big fans of the typical turkey dinner, there would be no turkey at all this year as there was no motivation to erect the traditional facade of choking down forkfuls of dry meat drowning in chunky globs of mottled brown gravy.

It was ironically a tradition that I became misty-eyed at the prospect of missing for the first time since my childhood. And now with two of my own small children, the thought of skipping it was further compounded by a large portion of maternal guilt. Was I a bad mother for allowing this to happen, the un-Thanksgiving?

In the past, if we had not been invited elsewhere to celebrate the repast, I had always magnanimously hosted at our home inviting friends, family, and anyone else whom I thought might have been forgotten by their own friends and family that particular season. Of course, this year WE were the forgotten, and while, in all fairness, we had received an invitation to dinner from a friendly family, they had a last minute change of plans. Interestingly enough the many folks whom I had so generously welcomed into my home in years past were strangely silent. Hmm. Does this make me feel like a more gracious, magnanimous, and, therefore, BETTER person than all of them combined? Why, yes it does!

But I digress.

So there we were, two days before Thanksgiving, my holiday blues waffling over whether or not to perch on my shoulders, when I saw it sitting innocuously in my email inbox: Dodge Ridge now opening. Due to an early generous precipitation, our nearest ski resort (still 3 1/2 hours away) would be open on Thanksgiving Day. Initially, I didn't take the notion very seriously. After all, we were strapped for cash, definitely NOT in ski condition, and totally unprepared. It actually didn't register on my radar until the next day, i.e., the day before Thanksgiving.

But my dh, dreamer that he is and oddly attuned to my shifting mood swings, perhaps sensed my impending disconsolation. The next thing I knew, he had dug out our old snow gear from storage, bought a few road trip snacks, made us sandwiches, sweet-talked my stepson into an hour drive to pick up our dogs (as the kennels were closed at 7 p.m. on the eve of Thanksgiving), and hustled us to the nearest Sports Basement for some cheap ski rentals within a half hour of closing for the holiday. That's the thing about my crazy impulsive husband; when he sets his mind to something, he makes it happen. He is the quintessential rainmaker.

So at 7:30 am on Turkey Day, about two hours later than we had hoped for, we set out on the road for an ambitious day trip, our first skiing venture of the season, on a shoestring budget and an impulse.

My amazing four-year olds were delightful essentially the entire trip there. Of course I already had this expectation due to a prior surprisingly fun car ride to Carlsbad last summer but it is always nice to have a repeat performance. Chattering away happily and munching on pogie bait car treats, they gradually fell asleep as my dh and I took advantage of a rare opportunity: hours of adult conversation. Forgoing a much needed nap, I basked in the glow of my love's undivided attention, something I hadn't experienced in a looong time. As the miles stretched on, the air grew slightly thinner and though the California sun still shined brightly above us, the outside temperature gauge dropped ever so slightly as the passing patches of grass grew more and more sparse replaced first by frost then by thin blankets of snow. (The quote of the trip was from my newly wakened son who asked me wide-eyed with wonder, "Mommy, is the white stuff snow?")

It was already 11:00 when we reached the resort, sunny blue skies, crisp air, and a perfect parking spot in an uncrowded lot. The day already held great promise! After slipping my tousle-haired children into their snow wear and watching them squeal with delight over dirty chunks of icy snow next to our front tires, it occurred to me that they would have been just as happy playing in a dirty parking lot as on a pristine groomed ski slope.

With the forethought of a seasoned veteran mom, I took multiple pictures with my smart phone while we were still standing by the car in the lot. After all, who knew what kind of day lay ahead of us? I wanted to capture the memory of this trip while we were still smiling! Clomping across the lot in our ski boots lugging our skis clumsily, in a flash I remembered how arduous skiing really is and I silently cursed my silly romanticized highly edited memories of ski trips past. We made a beeline for the bunny slope with our excited children in tow where I got a rude awakening from the rope tow.

I had not skied in at least 5 years. I had not comfortably skied at least 50 pounds ago, long before children and even before marriage. So lugging a 34 lb. child between my legs while frantically gripping a rope tow hauling my own lugubrious form was quite an endeavor the first time. And the second. And the third. Well, pretty much the entire duration that we were there.

But, oh, the ironic bliss of being with my beloved family, my children glowing with the thrill of their newfound love for skiing, and my beloved husband flushed with the return of a forgotten love for the sport. He even managed to squeeze in a solo run sans wife and kids finagling an unauthorized trip on a chair lift which we soon followed as a treat to the kids. Their first chair lift ride. It was nothing short of magical.

As we sat at the picnic tables basking in the sunshine reflected off the snowy slopes with our bellies full of a splurged meal of chili and fish and chips, from the depths of my heart and soul I was incredibly and spontaneously thankful to be where I was at that exact moment in time, sore calves and cramped toes and all. It was breathtakingly perfect. And I realized in that moment that there was no better way for me to truly experience Thanksgiving.

We limped off the slopes, tired and happy with the kids yearning for more, a fantastically positive sign of success as far as I am concerned. My happy contented children slept for most of the ride home, and the words exchanged with my beloved as the sun set and the dusk powdered the sky with hues of orange then purple were more intimate and honest than we have spoken in years. I did not think it possible, but our perfect day was actually outdone by the renewal of our vows to each other that night, vows to be each other's ally and friend for life, to always be on the same team, and to never give up hoping and dreaming for our family and for ourselves.

We still bask in the glow of the memory of that day. As averse as I am to use superlatives, dare I say it? It was the perfect Thanksgiving.

This is an original post to Year of 4s.