Knock-Knock
Skiing with a five year old is hard. Strike that. Skiing with a five year old is easy. It is everything that it takes to get there that is difficult.
What time are you and your crew skiing this morning is a question I pose daily to my daughter. I know the response I get is, at best an approximation, a guess, a wish , a hope (any similar term will suffice). There is the game to be finished or breakfast to be eaten or her older child's determination to get dressed at a deliberate pace. Or waiting for her two year old to agree to put on a jacket or hat, or not.
When those hurdles have been overcome and the family is loaded into the car, skis, boots, lunches and enthusiasm for the day all packed rather haphazardly into the trunk of their existence, it is off to the mountain.
I wait eagerly for them to arrive. My day begins and ends with this little girl and my dreams that she will find a love for this sport like her mom and her uncle did a generation before. I think I spot hints of it in her, but it could just be my projecting.
She gets out of the car with a smile on her face, a good sign. But maybe it is merely because she stopped for Dunkin Donuts along the route. Whatever it takes.
In short order we are on the magic carpet, then headed towards the lift for a run on the big hill. But there is a problem.
The line is long, the race team having descended here in the moments before our arrival. And I can see the hesitancy begin to elevate as my buddy remembers a somewhat difficult trip down the slope yesterday. She speaks now of wanting to go home. More than once.
Skiing is as much a psychological challenge as a physical one. I can't do that, or something along those lines, a phrase that echoes across every mountain from the smallest to the Olympic downhill course. And this sport becomes so much incredibly harder when doubt creeps in. Trust me, I have spent 40 years on the slopes with one constant companion. Doubt.
But it is not a simple task to persuade a five year old of anything, least of all that her concern is unfounded. So, I had to pull out my bag of tricks. Misdirection the best medicine.
We started doing math problems. If I had five dollars and I spent two dollars on French Fries and two more on a hot chocolate (I know these are circa 1950 prices but just trust me) how much money would I have left? This got us through the lift line, onto the chairlift and into our ascent. But not all the way to the top.
That is when my moment of genius arrived. At least genius on this day. "Do you want to hear a joke? How do you make a tissue dance? You put a little boogie in it." It is actually not only my favorite joke, it is the only one I can recall.
"Do you know any jokes?" That is when her mom came to the rescue. "How about a knock-knock joke?"
And with that, we were floating in the sky, unencumbered by the weight of expectations of skiing greatness, of the fundamentals to be absorbed, of anything resembling worry for the coming event. No, this was all about knock-knock jokes.
So, I made her promise to tell me knock-knock jokes all the way down the mountain. And so it was. Every few turns I would ask her to wait up for me. Then she would regale me with the same joke, which truth be told made absolutely no sense, before she moved on to catch up to her mom. It must have been a very strange sight for anyone watching an old man bend over to listen to his granddaughter and then erupt with laughter. Over and over.
At one stopping point she asked her mom why this slope was so much easier today then yesterday. Psychology, my friend. Psychology.
When we reached the bottom, this five year had conquered the run and any trepidation that might have lingered.
It turned out to be the only run on the big hill for the day. Lunch becoming its own long and fascinating experience. But that is a story for another time.
Skiing with a five year old. Hard work. Strike that. As simple as a bad joke.