Skate At Your Own Risk
"Momma, I wanna go ice skating for my birthday."
Who can say no to their pleading, hazel-eyed little girl, on the eve of her sixth birthday? Especially when she has just voluntarily cleaned her room AND put away her birthday gifts from her way-too-expensive party two nights before.
We've been celebrating Sagittarian birthdays in our fanily since late November, what's another festivity? Ice skating is one of the few sports I can do well. So I said yes, hoping my husband would go along with it (and after we scheduled said activity around the Chargers game to appease him).
I love chilly December evenings in Southern California, that is to say, nights in the low 50s or 40s. I have never had a White Christmas, haven't had the pleasure of shoveling snow from a driveway, would be a nervous wreck skating on a frozen lake somewhere. Makeshift ice rinks the size of postage stamps in suburban shopping malls are about all we get - but it's okay. It works.
When we get to the rink, there is a line, and only one hour of skate time left. Being a school night, we consider this a battle we don't have to wage - someone else has scheduled the end to the fun besides us. "I'm so excited!" Zoe jumps up and down, in capris, a dress, and a hoodie. We finally get on the ice, and my weebly-wobbly almost six year old clings to me. She is much better at this than she remembers, she took lessons at the age of four, but that was ages ago in her little girl mind. She may not even remember, though I have it fresh in my frontal lobe somewhere.
With my girlfriend holding our two year old on the fringes of the rink ("Wave to Mommy!") and my son at a friend's house, my husband and I get to hold our five for one more day baby girl, her two hands placed in one each of ours, and give her all the attention she desires and requires. She's the middle child, in the middle of us now, and our guilt and hopes for her are soothed here on the ice as she giggles and flails back, forward, and all about, in be-who-I-am girlishness. I drink her silliness in like warm hot chocolate, and she infuses me with thoughts of my own ice skating lessons thirty years ago. Same rink, different girl. I wore red, she wears pink - only pink.
I hope you're smarter than me, baby girl. I hope you're stronger (you already are), I hope you never feel like you have to please anyone and I'll die of you aren't always as happy as you are now. I'll cheer you on as you drop kick anyone who stands in your way. Really. (But please count to ten first).
As we leave the ice, my husband points to a sign that says "SKATE AT YOUR OWN RISK." It's a very plain white sign with red lettering, I wonder what he makes mention of it for, my husband, who rarely points out the obvious to me - a simple glance at each other usually suffices our tandem thinking. So I retort playfully, "It's everything at your own risk, honey."
"Yeah," he nods, sideways smile.
I have a white sign/red lettering list of signs in my head by now, of course.
Start a family at your own risk.
Fall in love at your own risk.
Stay in love at your own risk.
Drive your kids on the freeway noted for fatal accidents at your own risk.
Swim in a rip current at your own risk.
Hop a plane to Vegas at your own risk.
Shop without knowing exact sizes at your own risk.
Love with complete abandon at your own risk.
Take HGH at your own risk.
Confess at your own risk.
Get out of bed at your own risk.
...I think I could go on and on, but at the risk of losing my own attention...
If it doesn't involve a risk, is it even worth doing? (isn't there a song from the 80s...Ratt, maybe...nevermind). No, it isn't worth doing if it doesn't involve risk. Really.
When "I want to go ice sakting, Momma" becomes "I'm backpacking through Europe" or " I want to join the military, Mom," will I so fearlessly and agreeably stand by the same convictions?
Lacing up ice skates and getting (myself and three children) out of bed every morning demand my attention now...better enjoy it while it lasts. When the time comes for my daughter's existential decisions, if I find myself wonting, I have a hunch I'll be able to draw from her strength.
Scared as I am to send her out there, I am raising a risk-taker. Out of all the ironies I pick up because I just do, the risk of instilling risk-taking is at once thrilling and petrifying. A bunjee jump into her future, me hoping she's tied tight enough at the heels, but not so tight she'll be hurt.
Another exhausting night of being a family comes to a close. A "we made it through another day, honey," satisfaction washes through my husband and I with the green light of the cable box illuminating our faces enough to see faint expressions. Still in tandem. Next, I do the only thing I have left to, and can, do...for my five years old for another two hours daughter.
I pray.
So personal that is, so superstitious I am, I can't list that white sign with red lettering (too risky). But I hold on to it, my faith in all and for her, hoping the ice doesn't crack from under us.
Risk and prayer...my daughter and me.
Who can say no to their pleading, hazel-eyed little girl, on the eve of her sixth birthday? Especially when she has just voluntarily cleaned her room AND put away her birthday gifts from her way-too-expensive party two nights before.
We've been celebrating Sagittarian birthdays in our fanily since late November, what's another festivity? Ice skating is one of the few sports I can do well. So I said yes, hoping my husband would go along with it (and after we scheduled said activity around the Chargers game to appease him).
I love chilly December evenings in Southern California, that is to say, nights in the low 50s or 40s. I have never had a White Christmas, haven't had the pleasure of shoveling snow from a driveway, would be a nervous wreck skating on a frozen lake somewhere. Makeshift ice rinks the size of postage stamps in suburban shopping malls are about all we get - but it's okay. It works.
When we get to the rink, there is a line, and only one hour of skate time left. Being a school night, we consider this a battle we don't have to wage - someone else has scheduled the end to the fun besides us. "I'm so excited!" Zoe jumps up and down, in capris, a dress, and a hoodie. We finally get on the ice, and my weebly-wobbly almost six year old clings to me. She is much better at this than she remembers, she took lessons at the age of four, but that was ages ago in her little girl mind. She may not even remember, though I have it fresh in my frontal lobe somewhere.
With my girlfriend holding our two year old on the fringes of the rink ("Wave to Mommy!") and my son at a friend's house, my husband and I get to hold our five for one more day baby girl, her two hands placed in one each of ours, and give her all the attention she desires and requires. She's the middle child, in the middle of us now, and our guilt and hopes for her are soothed here on the ice as she giggles and flails back, forward, and all about, in be-who-I-am girlishness. I drink her silliness in like warm hot chocolate, and she infuses me with thoughts of my own ice skating lessons thirty years ago. Same rink, different girl. I wore red, she wears pink - only pink.
I hope you're smarter than me, baby girl. I hope you're stronger (you already are), I hope you never feel like you have to please anyone and I'll die of you aren't always as happy as you are now. I'll cheer you on as you drop kick anyone who stands in your way. Really. (But please count to ten first).
As we leave the ice, my husband points to a sign that says "SKATE AT YOUR OWN RISK." It's a very plain white sign with red lettering, I wonder what he makes mention of it for, my husband, who rarely points out the obvious to me - a simple glance at each other usually suffices our tandem thinking. So I retort playfully, "It's everything at your own risk, honey."
"Yeah," he nods, sideways smile.
I have a white sign/red lettering list of signs in my head by now, of course.
Start a family at your own risk.
Fall in love at your own risk.
Stay in love at your own risk.
Drive your kids on the freeway noted for fatal accidents at your own risk.
Swim in a rip current at your own risk.
Hop a plane to Vegas at your own risk.
Shop without knowing exact sizes at your own risk.
Love with complete abandon at your own risk.
Take HGH at your own risk.
Confess at your own risk.
Get out of bed at your own risk.
...I think I could go on and on, but at the risk of losing my own attention...
If it doesn't involve a risk, is it even worth doing? (isn't there a song from the 80s...Ratt, maybe...nevermind). No, it isn't worth doing if it doesn't involve risk. Really.
When "I want to go ice sakting, Momma" becomes "I'm backpacking through Europe" or " I want to join the military, Mom," will I so fearlessly and agreeably stand by the same convictions?
Lacing up ice skates and getting (myself and three children) out of bed every morning demand my attention now...better enjoy it while it lasts. When the time comes for my daughter's existential decisions, if I find myself wonting, I have a hunch I'll be able to draw from her strength.
Scared as I am to send her out there, I am raising a risk-taker. Out of all the ironies I pick up because I just do, the risk of instilling risk-taking is at once thrilling and petrifying. A bunjee jump into her future, me hoping she's tied tight enough at the heels, but not so tight she'll be hurt.
Another exhausting night of being a family comes to a close. A "we made it through another day, honey," satisfaction washes through my husband and I with the green light of the cable box illuminating our faces enough to see faint expressions. Still in tandem. Next, I do the only thing I have left to, and can, do...for my five years old for another two hours daughter.
I pray.
So personal that is, so superstitious I am, I can't list that white sign with red lettering (too risky). But I hold on to it, my faith in all and for her, hoping the ice doesn't crack from under us.
Risk and prayer...my daughter and me.
