We’re just recovering from a whirlwind of a trip. The bathtub wall still has bubbles sliding down the sides like an entire army of Mr. Bubbles; the Terror is singing to his new purple bouncy ball tucked in with him; the Ellie dog is happy but still nervously shedding like a dried out Christmas tree; and the Goldfish has his flashlight out and is going through his latest Junie B. Jones book, page by page until his eyes can’t stay open any longer.
It’s some sort of bliss.
But before I, too, give in to this thick quiet and become lulled to sleep by the sounds of the dishwasher harmonizing with that of the dryer, let me tell you about our day yesterday.
First, we could not have asked for nicer weather. The signature bluebird Colorado skies, 32-degree weather with nary a breeze that just begged you to ski and snowboard in a long-sleeved t-shirt sans jacket, and good packed powder without any icy spots to really take you down screaming. And while there wasn’t fresh pow-pow, ol’ Mr. Sunshine himself softened up enough of that top layer to keep things a little sticky but not too grabby.
A fine day for a snowboarding lesson, I’d say. There’s our big Fish there, in the green shell and Oakley goggles.
And while the Fish was getting ready to rip, we wondered what it might be like for the Terror to slide around on sticks. So we hooked him up.
He kind of liked it and kind of didn’t. He laughed and cackled and then cried and fussed.
He needed a little soothing here and there, but then wriggled and giggled and said, “Daddy, mah thskis.”
They’re just showing off. That magic carpet thing is my demise in every way. I looked like Fred Flintstone on that demon of a thing.
The Fish and his instructor, Mr. Rick, pick a line together.
What a stud muffin.
After about an hour, the Terror hung up his skis and I took him back to the condo for an almond butter and agave sandwich.
That’s so weird.
Whatever happened to peanut butter and jelly? Remember? On Wonder bread that stuck so badly to the roof of your mouth that you gagged and then had to scrape it off with your fingers and just hoped that your fingernails weren’t too long because then it really hurt. The kind of sandwich that you tucked into your jacket pocket, and if you were really lucky, after a good day on the mountain you’d have had a good crash or six that would smoosh it flat and kind of freeze the jelly a little bit, leaving just a bit of crunch in that gooey goodness.
Boy. Those were the good ol’ days.
Now we go back to the condo, make a fresh sandwich with a side of fruit, pour ourselves a cold glass of almond milk and kick our dogs up on the coffee table in order to watch a little 27 Dresses before we get sleepy and nod off with a toddler under our arm.
It’s a new kind of good ol’ days.
After that nap, the little guy and I flew that helicopter again. And check out his new hat. He calls it, “spidah fiyah.” It’s a twofer. Flames and a spider. Couldn’t ask for better.
Not a bad view from the cockpit.
It was sort of comfy cozy. We just rode and rode.
But soon, well, not too soon – more like 45 minutes, or perhaps an hour – but soonish, our tummies started rumbling. We made our final exit and headed for the car.
We hit a lull in the pedestrian traffic since it was around that 5:00 p.m. mark, which was nice. That little man took off like he owned the place.
For a short guy, he can sure part a crowd. Although he almost did get nailed with a board or too.
And as my sign-off, I’ll share my inspiration for today. It’s a good one.
No one ever finds a life worth living – One has to make it worth living.
Live it up, baby!