Fresh air, schmesh air

So you know what's really fun?

And by fun, I mean, you know, better than going to a supermarket with three children under the age of four, one of whom has diarrhea, the other chicken pox and the third was in the middle of a nap.

While you need to pee. Which is always, 'cuz really, what kinda mom are you if you're taking time out to pee?

Skiing.

Keep up, people! I was saying that skiing is way fun. Pay attention, now.

The thing about skiing is that the joy of it all begins WAAAAAYYY before the part where you're hurtling down the bunny hill cliff toward certain death, with snot frozen all over your face, idly wondering if your underwear is good enough for the people who will be forced to deal with your broken body down at the hospital, all while watching a teenage mutant snowboarder bombing toward your seven-year-old like he's actually trying to kill him, which you' d prefer not to have happen because deep down you sort of like him, in spite of all his faults.

Also, you can't remember if he has on nice underwear.

Probably he does not, since you can't afford new underwear after shelling out the zillions of dollars it requires to clothe children who ski.

But no, the real problem with skiing is that the joy of it all is actually extended over several days, beginning with the packing.

Packing for skiing is more stressful than packing for other things, because really if you forget even so much as a mitten, your skiing is pretty much ruined. You can't not have a mitten.

So you are wracked with worry and stress that your child will end up losing limbs to frostbite, while you sit in traffic in a car heading north with children in the back seat already bickering and whining over whose audio-book - You did remember to stop at the library and get a couple audio books, didn't you? - should go first.

Also, they are wondering, perchance, if we're there yet?

And mayhap you know how much longer it will be?

And did you pack any snacks?

And why does SHE get them first? And why is HE touching everything?

And you're wondering if you remembered to cancel the paper, and hold the mail, and really, where do we stand on the mittens? Did we bring them or not?

And the coffee pot... did anyone turn that off?

When you finally get where you're going, the first four parking lots will be full, which means that you have a choice to make: get dropped off in the cold with your 400 pounds of equipment to wait with cold and bickering kids for Man to drop off the car 5 miles away and walk back or go with him and lug the 400 pounds of equipment through the cold with the bickering kids who are now also whining about the 5-mile walk.

Decide that standing still is easier, and get dropped off.

Explain to Boy that, no, he cannot use his ski pole to sword-fight with that child over there that you don't even know.

Explain to him that no, whacking his sister instead wasn't what you meant.

And stop kicking the snow at people. And NO, DON'T EAT IT, for heaven's sake, what are you, NUTS?! IT'S DIRTY!

Tell them if they count to 100, Daddy will be there. Listen to kids count to 100.

'Cuz that's fun.

Snarl at Man when he finally shows up, (at 700, by the way) all smiling, like Oh, isn't this fun? that how come YOU never get to be the car person?

Completely baffled by how getting to run back five miles uphill is suddenly enviable, he will probably snarl back that FINE! YOU Can be the car person the next time.

And you will say FINE right back because you're mature that way, and then stomp off up the stairs - why are there always stairs?- with your four hundred pairs of boots bumping against your backside, muttering to yourself that this is the last time you will ever do this.

Also, that you hate everyone. For ever. And you're not changing your mind this time.

And that you're really cold.

Also hungry, because by now it's lunchtime because you and your clearly dysfunctional family are not together enough to get to the damn mountain before this.

Some of you will interrupt here to smugly point out that you just rent your stuff on an as-needed basis.

Well, a) interrupting is quite rude, don't you think? and b) I have done the math on this. And while, yes, I am an English major, I am still fairly certain that while the short-run costs of not having to invest in ski equipment and/or of having the aggravation of lugging it around may seem lower, in the long run, the costs of the medical care and boarding at the insane asylum that you will require after having spent 45 minutes sweating (because you're wearing all your winter gear) in line while a 16-year-old tries to sort him or herself out enough to assist you and your sweating (because they're wearing all their winter gear - turns out you did bring that mitten: yay, you!) children who are by now needing constant reminders about proper behavior, will run you much higher.

Also, they don't ever end up having your size.

So anyway, back to lunch.

Oh, my goodness - are we really only at lunch?

See? This is the problem with skiing: there is really a lot of work involved just to slide down a mountain a couple of times, with a belly full of deep fried items served in what they romantically call a lodge but really amounts to a bus station with a fireplace, filled with cranky people who are all really just waiting for it to be over so they can go get a glass of wine and rejoice in not having skied into a tree that day.

Well, I suppose the wine part's good. And I'd whine some more, but I have to go pack.

Wish me luck. If you're bored, here all by your lonesome, you can always check out the fine non-skiing folk at humor-blogs.com.