We left Albuquerque at 6:30 am, just as planned. Andy was up at 5, sick. Marissa’s mom held her sickness in until the second lost turn around in Sante Fe. Marissa, her sickness not food related, had no voice the entire trip. But, at 6:30 am we were in the car moving toward Sante Fe and snow. The sun came up over the mountains while two small boys and one Grandma snoozed in the back of the rented Chrysler something or other, a car that whined anytime we wanted to do more than 60 mph but always got us where we were going. Twyla, Todd’s mom, packed us each breakfast burritos in brown paper bags and hung them on the back porch to chill during the night. Fried potatoes, scrambled eggs, cheese, and the famous Burque green chiles. Both sweet and spicy. The kids got orange slices, half a banana, an apple, and several napkins in their bag. The adults got small tomatoes and oranges. Twyla runs a daycare in her house, so she is an expert at feeding many and feeding them fast.
We picked up the snow gear at a ski shop halfway up the mountain. Turner’s skis were tiny looking, and he was so very excited, wanting to put them on his feet in the ski shop. While Andy was adjusting boots and getting gear together, Turner stripped down to his skivvies so I can layer him up. Undershirt, Spiderman pajama shirt because it was the tightest long sleeve I could find, a thermal, a sweater and the $8 UK blue Columbia ski jacket found at Savers the day before we left (it looks brand new). On the bottom half he had underwear, long pants, his flannel lined pants from Christmas, and his bibs from Amy. Smart wool socks, toasty toes from Pa Pa, and new snow boots from Savers. He never complained once about all these layers; he just kept asking when we were doing the snowball fight and how he would walk around in those big skis. Having secured the snow gear, we got back into the vehicles and made our way up the mountain. It was a beautiful day with lots of sunshine and little wind. A perfect day for a woman who does not tolerate the cold well.
At the ski resort, which was more like a huge cafeteria with lots of windows, Andy made a dash to the bathroom again while I checked Turner into chipmunk ski school. I have not been snow skiing since high school and never before considered how much ski school might cost. Can you even imagine my sticker shock? Shew. All kids had to be checked in by 9 am. We were there on the nose and the tiny, tiny room for check in was overcrowded with tons of kids and parents that knew exactly what they were suppose to be doing. I, on the other hand, was carrying kid skis, a pair of ski boots, a pair of adult bibs, a backpack with my computer and books, a purse, like three sets of gloves, sunglasses, and the camera. All while trying to keep Turner near and dear. Finally, some woman behind the counter saw my confusion and directed me to the necessary forms, vest, and name card to enroll Turner in ski school. As we were standing in line, a little girl started talking to Turner and telling him all about ski school. She showed him some moves, explained to him the terminology, and encouraged him to be brave. Up until this point Turner had been so excited to ski and to be in ski school, but after encouragement from a seven year old he became scared.
“Mom,” he whispered to me when I finally made it to the floor to hear him, dropping piece by piece of gear as we chatted, “I’m not sure this is such a good idea. What do I do?” He picked up a glove and piled it back on my pile while I reached out quickly to balance myself by grabbing for the leg of the desk.
“The teachers will show you. They will be there with you the entire time.” I sounded reassuring, even as I questioned whether this would be true. I really had no idea what would happen once he stepped on the other side of the yellow chain. There seemed to be a million kids here, getting shuttled through like cattle as eager parents rushed out the door and toward the slopes. I was more nervous than he, but I had paid for the chipmunk experience and by golly he was going to get it. Andy arrived. He offered reassurance to Turner and within moments we watched him waddle down the hallway with a friendly teenager carrying his so tiny skis. Another mother saw me cry and in a tone that was so my sister she said, “Oh come on" a giant smile across her face, "my kids have been here for three days. They love it.” Okay lady. Thanks.
Andy pats my shoulder and tried to be sympathetic as he headed to the lavatory again. For the first hour of the day, I watched Turner in ski school. The chipmunk area was a huge square as long as a football field. There were several trees that snagged more than a few little bodies coming down the hill. There were some cones set up in the middle for the more advanced children. I saw several times the young girl that Turner and I met in the check-in room as she slid around the cones like an expert. At first, Turner was cautious and seemed to get lost in the swarm of 3 and 4 year olds. All of them big round circles of puffy synthetic fibers. I could always identify Turner by the blue and green striped hat bobbing up and down on his head. He would ski, slowly, while holding the hand of his instructor. He could not stop except to drag his butt down the hill. More than once he pelted the little boy in front of him, a child who wore a bright blue coat and red pants; a kid moving slower than any of the others. After an hour, I retreated with Grandma Irene to the lodge where we picked a table in the sun. From there, I could watch T go up, over and over again, on the kid ski lift. It was a moving escalator without the stairs. At one point Turner was lost in looking at the trees, and his ski slipped off the narrow moving belt. I saw a woman in red, an instructor, go rushing to his aid as another jumped to turn off the moving belt. The woman who helped him re-place his ski on the belt walked up the hill with him as he continued on the belt. I figure he was scared and she offered him reassurance. As she turned to walk back down the hill I saw she was laughing and I wondered, What is it that he said to her?
At lunch I went back and watched him for another hour so that he could actually see me watching. He was stronger and more willing to crouch, holding his knees as his instructor had taught him. He had learned to stop. He was proud of his hard work, willing to wave at me as he tried to ski down the hill. There were fewer kids and his instructor moved him to the first in the line. She and he talked a lot, who knows what about, but he was always pointing here and there as they rode up the ski lift.
By the end of the day, Turner was one of four kids remaining in the class. His instructor was no longer near as he swooshed from one side of the hill to the other. At one point she came running down the hill after him as he slid around a tree and then turned so that he slid right up to the end of the escalator. He did this without knocking into the ten or so kids lined up at the bottom. Too bad I forgot to bring my camera for this final leg of ski school. I really wanted to take a video of him.
Last night we got back home and Turner tells La La all the rules of snow skiing, in even more detail than we've gotten then ten or so times we've heard him talk about it. I can't remember them all...put your hands on your knees, turn skiis to the side to fall, turn with your knees and something else I think. Anyway, clearly ski school paid off.
Our fake yoga moves, entertaining us as we walked around and around Albuquerque.
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