All On A Winter's Day

A couple of weeks ago, I noticed a huge bruise on the back of my leg. Since I haven't been falling-down-drunk in a while, I was kind of wondering how I garnered this small ocean of blue on a leg that normally only features varicose streams.

And then it dawned on me: snow tubing.

I took the kids a couple weeks ago on a rare day when not only was there some snow on the ground, but it was barely cold.  That meant Cara, who has the body fat of a small zucchini, could stand to be outdoors for more than 10 minutes.

Now, I just want to put it out there that no one in this household has ever gone snow tubing before.  Probably because of my "crash fear."  Little did I know that a professionally run snow tube park is probably 100 times safer than the local sledding hill, where eight-year-old boys don't actually seem lethal until they're barreling down an icy slope screaming, "I'm out of contrrohhllll!!"

Sledding also involves walking yourself and your ride back to the top of the snow-covered hill.  That's why you don't see the old-timers, the overweight or the Salfino kids doing a lot of sledding.

So in my mind, snow tubing held a high probability level for broken bones, eye damage and/or nose bleeds due to inescapable crashes, preceded by an insufferable amount of grunting and grousing getting the tube back up long hills of packed powder.  Sorta doesn't really seem that fun.

Cut to this past Christmas break.  Every other day, either the weather was lousy or one of the kids was sick: a head cold, it's raining, a stomach ache, it's raining, a migraine (that would be me).  The break was a bust.

A week later, I couldn't take being stuck indoors anymore.  That's when I decided to explore the wild world of family snow tubing.  Not that our whole family would go.  Mike had to watch the NFL games for work, although, he normally opts out of things that smack of "fresh air activity."  So I went online and looked up local snow tubing options.

And that's where I saw two things that convinced me to give this venture a shot:

1) The snow tubes go down bermed chutes, so people can't slam into each other
2) There are conveyor belts or tow ropes to pull you back up the hill

Mike was out bowling at that point.  I knew if he came home before we got out, he'd react with his normal, "You're going to do what?!  Why??  You could break a leg!"  Read: "Cath, don't get hurt because it will really suck for me!"

So I yelled to the kids to get ready with hats, boots, gloves.

Me: "Ryan, get off the Xbox!  We're going snow tubing!"

Ryan: "We're going to do what?! Why??"

Me: "Ryan, you'll be kicked off the game as soon as Dad comes home.  And then it's either snow tubing with me or reading something."

Ryan: "Hold on!  I'm coming!!"

PS--Ryan is 12.  He got his last pair of snow boots a year ago... or so.  Who remembers these details? (More later on the "I can't walk!" portion of our day.)

We went to Camelback Mountain in Pennsylvania.  Ryan has gone to the resort in the summer when the place has its Camel Beach water park going.

Ryan: "It takes two hours to get there.  And with snow, and traffic... we won't get there until dark.  Why are we doing this??"

Me: "The web site says it should take an hour and a half.  Relax."

He put his head back and fell into a deep, disgruntled nap.

An hour later, we were walking through the parking lot.

Ry: "That two hours went fast."

Cara: "It didn't take two hours."

Ry: "It does on our camp bus."

Cara: "That's because your bus doesn't go 82 miles an hour."

Which isn't even legal, so of course I didn't drive that fast.

Anyway, we stood in line to pay and sign waivers saying we wouldn't sue anybody if we got hurt, maimed or killed.  Which, of course, we would.

While on line, Ry noticed most people had on apparel that seemed more suited to snow play than the denim jeans we were wearing.

Ry: "They all have legit snow gear, Mom."

Me, cribbing from the esteemed Ryan Reynolds film, "Just Friends": "We're from Jersey.  We tube in our jeans."

We went along a paved sidewalk, grabbed a snow tube, pulled it over a non-skid plastic walkway and boarded a slow-moving conveyor belt that took us up the hill.

Cara: "This is SO. MUCH. BETTER than sleigh riding!"

Ryan: "Seriously!"

Sad, but then again, my kids were agreeing on something!  It was a beautiful moment.

Our first run was great.  I had smooth ride with a couple of graceful twirls thrown in.  The second run...let's just say that amount of spinning is probably a bona fide torture technique somewhere in the world.  The end of the run culminated with 100-mph spins that were slowed only when I bounced very, VERY hard on something that I hoped wasn't a small child.  Because I bounced twice.  I was considering my lawsuit options as I opened and closed my eyes, waiting for the skies above me to come to a stop.

By the time I could stand again, the painful bouncing was forgotten, due to severe nausea.

But I had paid good money for this brand of fun, so we pressed on.  But by the end of the next run, Ryan said he was losing feeling in his feet, due to a constant pinching sensation.  I had brought a pair of hiking sneakers that he probably should have used the whole time, considering the conveyor belt, plastic non-slip walkway, etc..  Whoops.

This break was also when Cara asked how many more runs we were going to do.  Despite a good seven layers involving wool, down and thermal tech gear, she was shivering.

To be a good sport, she did one more run and beat a hasty retreat to the "snack shack" for some hot tea and a reboot of her circulation.

By now, it was dark.  Ryan and I did one more run.  I watched one mom put her toddler in a tube by herself and give her a push down the hill.  I watched another mom lay on her belly on the rear of a double tube, holding her year-old baby in the front tube.  I marveled at their lack of worry.  Actually, that's not true.  I thought these people were insane.

On the ride home, as Cara thawed out and before Ryan settled in for another nap, I told them we should be glad.  We tried something new!  We got some fresh winter air!  Dad didn't thwart our plans!  AND nobody got hurt!

Okay, well....

The Power of One

I don't know why I don't mind being a "football widow."  I just don't.  At this point in my life, I actually look forward to the season.

I know I'll have the TV to myself on Monday and Thursday nights to watch what I want -- as opposed to "Pawn Stars" or "Storage Wars" or some other male-dominated reality show that does not star George Clooney.

By now, I've spent years entertaining my kids on NFL Sundays.  But these days, they're actually old enough that I don't have to take them out of the house so Mike can concentrate on the games he has to write about.  We just go out to get out of the house.

But I've never understood why women get p.o.'d that their husbands "aren't available" for what amounts to 16 days each year.  Really.  That's all it is.  Of 352 days, 16 Sundays are devoted to NFL football.  Of course, there are the Monday night and Thursday night games.  But they start so late, it's hardly an inconvenience to family time.

On the other hand, I know there are women who have "handy" husbands.  These women keep "Honey Do" lists.  The first time I heard of such a list was about a decade into my relationship with my husband.  And I thought it was quaint.

Me: "Mike, did you ever hear of a 'honey do' list?"

Mike: "Is this some sort of fruit quiz?"

Me: "What?....  No, it has to do with a list of chores and home projects a wife writes up for her husband to do."

Mike: "That's stupid.  Why doesn't the wife just hire somebody?"

So, you see, my Sundays were never spent with Mike hanging sheetrock, scraping wallpaper, or laying sod... or whatever wives have their husbands do.   I can't complain about "losing a day" when Mike's watching football, because he wouldn't do that crap to begin with!

I'm also lucky because my weekends were only briefly  taken up with kids' sports, so I can't complain that Mike's been missing their games.  Actually, those are the moms I really feel sorry for: the women who, weekend in and weekend out sit on bleachers or foldout chairs, watching their child (hopefully) play soccer, football, soft- or baseball or any other kid sport.  And you hope your kid actually plays.  Because it's bad enough giving up hours of your life, but if you don't even get to see your own kid play, well... that's a criminal waste of time!

You can't just leave these kids' events because you won't seem supportive.  You can't yell for your kid to stop picking their nose or swatting at gnats, and "KICK THE BALL!," because that won't seem supportive.  And you definitely can't put your head in your hands and weep, asking aloud, "Dear GOD, when will this game be OVER?!?" because that really won't seem supportive.

Instead, those parents just have to sit there, in heat, rain or cold with their hangovers, or their need to find a park restroom because they're on their fifth cup of coffee from the communal Box o' Joe.  This goes on for hours.  Every single weekend.  Holy crap!

That's why, if you're not in lockdown at a kids sport, and and you can't figure out something to do for  16 days a year while your husband is parked in front of an NFL game, you're not being creative enough.

When my kids were little, I'd take them for pumpkin picking, apple picking and corn maze runs.  These are things Mike would never do on his own so it made sense to drive as far as possible and kill as much time as possible to run through a Sunday.

Now that the kids are older, I can suggest things that are a little different--with the full knowledge that Mike would not feel left out of the fun.  Take, for instance, canoeing in the Meadowlands.  Or down the Passaic River.  Or sailboating on the Hudson.

Mike: "Why would I want to do that?"

Me: "It's something fun and different.  Why WOULDN'T you want to do that?"

Mike: "It's hot.  There's bugs. We wouldn't know what we're doing so there's the possiblity of drowning. How do you even canoe?  The Passaic River is filthy.  ...I can keep going...."

So, I'm thinking some new Sunday activities are in order.  And to all you football widows who are dreading the next four months, I say embrace this time!  You can be outdoorsy, or go shopping for hours at a stretch, or give yourself pampering time or a long gym day.

And if worse comes to worst, and you've climbed every mountain and forged every stream, you can always sit down next to your husband, take a deep breath and ask, "Really, what DOES offsides mean?"  

That just might be the question that brings you closer... to getting kicked out of the living room and shipped off to a long girls' weekend at a spa.  (It's worth a shot!)

Down That Slippery Slope

As a veteran football widow, I've come to know what to do to keep the kids happy, the husband happy and myself relatively sober during an NFL football Sunday.

But now we're in the playoff season. And that means Saturday AND Sunday games. Lucky for me, it's been a-snowin' like the dickens outside. Unlucky for me, we don't have a quarter-mile hill running down our backyard, like I had growing up.

So, I drive my kids to a sledding site. Lucky for me, it's easy to get to. There are also no trees or telephone poles in the sledding path. Unlucky for us all, there's a two-way street at the bottom. But, the town is kind/smart/wary of lawsuits enough to shut the street down for a few hours on busy sledding weekends.

I've taken Ryan a number of times, and Cara at least twice. You'd think this would make me #1 Mom. Mom of the Year. Best Mom on the Block, at least.

But -- and the established readers will already know this -- no.

Me: "Hey, it's a great day to go sledding. Why don't you get your stuff on and we'll go over."

Cara, making a beeline anywhere away from me: "I have homework. LOVE YOU!"

Ryan: "Why do you keep doing this?!"

Yep. I'm told over and over by my kids that "I'm old" yet I'm the one longing to fly down the slope, hopefully catching some air as I hit a few mogul-like bumps in my path. I guess sledding is for old people now. It's not Xbox, it's not Skype or facebook or Netflix. It's what old people do, until they need a hip replacement and turn to indoor games like "Where's My Damn Bi-Focals?"

Last weekend, I took my sister and one of her sons with me, Cara and Ryan. This should have

been an all-out good time for my son: snow, sledding, a male cousin. Yes, I know: not the free-for-all he'd like with all the boy cousins and uncles who pull out shovels to create jumps of ill-advised heights.

But whatever, it should have been considered something decent.

Ten minutes after our arrival, Ryan was insisting he couldn't go fast enough because the snow wasn't "any good." Thank you, Bob Costas, Jr.

I recognized a recent storm had made the snow a little rougher, but it was certainly sleddable. Ry took a few more runs and determined he'd had it. My sister and I, meanwhile, were doing run after run, looking for the premier area on this very wide slope, doing our best to not take out any small children along the way. See, it's funny when another kid does it, yet "frowned upon" when an adult causes casualties.

Luckily for me, a bystander dad heard me and Ryan spiraling toward a "negative conversation." He pointed out an area further down the way that had a steep start. Ryan, feeling pressure from an outside source to appear agreeable, decided to give it a whirl. Bam! It got my son to the very bottom of the hill and inspired him to take a few more runs.

However, about 20 minutes later, my sister and I noticed all three kids standing at the top of the hill, chit chatting. My kids are routinely ready to conclude their sledding day after a half hour, so clearly we moms had wickedly forced them to run past their limit.

Ryan: "Why do you guys keep going down the hill?"

My sister: "Because we've got the keys!"

Me: "What's up with you guys? You're all done?"

Cara: "Mmm, yeah. Are you almost done?"

My sister and I were like, "What is the deal!?" We came to the conclusion that it must have been how we were raised. Once my mom got her brood of five out the door with all our snow gear on, I don't recall being allowed back in for at least two, if not five, hours. My mother may remember it differently.

My sister and I got in a couple more runs, the last one of which was a race that I let her win -- because I'm older and didn't want her to be all sad... and stuff. But, I'd like to point out, in an effort to NOT run into some small children, I had to swing right onto a cruddy path full of footsteps and lumpy snow, thus taking me way off course. But, still, I let her win.

Because I'm an adult. Obviously.

It's Laughter We Remember....

When I think about our wedding day, the first thing I think about is how it was gloriously sunny the day before and the day after.

On our actual wedding day, it rained. It wasn't just overcast. It wasn't a romantic light sprinkling. Or a sun shower. No, this was a full-fledged, 10-hour, unmerciful, you-and-your-white-gown-are-so-screwed downpour. And someone needs to tell Alanis Morrisette there's nothing ironic about the situation. Rain on your wedding day just sucks.

The photos in our wedding album show me going into the limo wearing boat shoes. The dark and gloomy day translated into photos that looked like they were taken at 10 at night, not early afternoon.

People were really nice -- telling us that rain on the wedding day means "showers of good fortune." Okay. I'm still waiting for that. But there's still time. It's only been a couple decades or so.

Meanwhile, when Mike thinks about our wedding, he talks about that day's Jets game. He remembers the score, who got hurt, who had a good tackle.

Apparently, he casually went out to the bar, ordered up a Coke and just stayed there for a while, unbeknownst to his family, my family, our friends. THEY were all making good use of the open bar IN the ballroom. Which might explain why his extended absence went virtually unnoticed.

I was too busy circulating among the guests to eat or drink. And Mike kept to his Coke regimen. So you'd have thought we would have had more control over the party games.

Me & Mike (during wedding planning): "The deejay must not play Kool & The Gang's 'Celebration,' there will be no bouquet tossing and don't even think about the garter-throwing mess."

Cut to the reception: Party deejays in da house. We didn't realize we even hired PARTY DEEJAYS. We never heard of the term, but next thing we knew, one was spinning tunes while the other was stomping around with his portable mic, singing about how we all needed to celebrate and have a good time.

Mike: "Good lord."

When MC Get Down announced the bouquet and garter toss, I mouthed to Mike, "No WAY!"

But drunk people dig that stuff. They were all like, "WOOOOOO!" "YEAH!" "DO. THIS. THING!!!" We were definitely on a runaway train. It was so not a "Bridezillas" or "My Fair Wedding" deal.

This weekend, we mark the 22nd year since we exchanged marriage vows. A hurricane is also blowing up the coast. (I'm giddy thinking about all the good fortune that'll be showered upon me.)

The NFL kickoff usually goes hand-in-hand with our anniversary. But this year, pro football doesn't start until next week. I think I need to go remind Mike. Let's face it: no NFL + no Jets = no mental reminder of the awesome party that rocked our wedding day.