Laziness saves the day
Henry, Hyrum and Emmett took a minute to relax before we’d even begun skiing.
As I write this, I’m sitting in the impeccably remodeled kitchen of my sister-in-law’s parents, with whom we’re staying for a four-day ski trip in snowy Northern Utah (“You may want to mention in your column that the idea for this second bathroom was all mine,” said Roger as he gave me a tour of the main floor, and yes, it really is conveniently placed—definitely worth a mention).
It’s well into the afternoon, and I’m still in my pajamas, a bag of peanut butter M&M’s at my side. My face is mottled from what I can only assume to be a combination of early-onset frostbite and windburn contracted yesterday when I was once again lured out onto an arctic mountain for a day of skiing.
Yesterday’s high topped out at 18 degrees, and my sister-in-law swears that her weather app documented a chilly 5 degrees by the time we were all getting into our cars at the end of the day.
These are not my ideal skiing conditions, in case you’re wondering. I’ve written about this before, but I simply cannot get over the fact that people go skiing for fun. It defies all reason to my regular-body-temperature-loving and injury-hating self.
It was so cold on the mountain that when we got home last night and 14-year-old Jane stripped off her frigid snow gear in front of the roaring fire, she said, “I feel like I just went to heaven, and God let me take one gift back with me, and this was it.”
I told Logan later that night that I had zero percent desire to go skiing the next day.
“I’ve got a column due and I haven’t written a single word yet,” I said. “But really, I just don’t want to be cold anymore.”
“That’s fine,” he replied, not even laying down the slightest guilt trip (which doesn’t necessarily mean that I didn’t feel guilty, because guilt is kind of my baseline).
When I announced to everyone at dinner that I wouldn’t be going on the ski trip the next day, I cast a pall over the group as only a party pooper can. My youngest sons, Emmett and Hyrum, quickly stated that they, too, would like to stay home, and it was done. I felt a little selfish and a little wimpy, but was strong in my resolve to enjoy a warm day where I could watch—instead of feel—the snow fall, and finish my column in peace.
And then the clock struck four.
Nothing will jolt you awake faster at four in the morning than hearing your child thundering up the stairs and announcing at the side of your bed that he’s just thrown up. It’s even more exhilarating when you’re a guest in someone’s house and you wake up unsure of where you are or even what your name is.
“I hope it didn’t get on the carpet,” was my first thought, and also the opening line of my speech as a contestant for the “Mother of the Year” award. My next thought was, ““Poor kid!”, followed immediately by, “How is this going to mess up our plans for today?”
As Logan and I headed downstairs to the bedroom where my four boys had been sleeping, we were dazzled by the impressive spray pattern of this child’s throw up, which had gone pretty much everywhere except the bathroom toilet.
We began doing what every parent loves to do at 4:30 in the morning: wiping down walls, stripping sheets, starting the first of five loads of laundry, and manually cleaning the carpet leading from the bed (the top bunk, no less!) all the way to the bathroom.
But as I went about these early morning chores, it dawned on me that my slightly questionable decision to stay home from the ski trip was now saving the day. I would be able to take care of my sick boy, and no one would have to reshuffle or figure out alternate plans. Jammies, warmth, and article-writing were all still in my future, just with a little more laundry and kneeling next to a toilet bowl than expected.
For the record, my sick boy is on the mend. He and his brother watched about a billion movies, completed an entire puzzle, and are playing a new board game at the table as I type away on my laptop. The skiers are on their way home from an epic day on the slopes, and the snow is coming down hard. All in all, it was a great day.