Quality Time

Dear Jake, 

As the youngest, you got stuck with me again--for the entire day. Your dad and brothers went skiing, leaving you at my mercy. So I thought we'd go snowshoeing because you and I don't move our bodies enough. (I spend too much time on the computer; you waste your youth on the Wii.) Plus I really didn't want to go to Toys-r-Us as you suggested. And snowshoeing is cheaper than skiing. 

So we packed a lunch and drove up the canyon to a place we've never tried before. As we drove through the sunny valley where we live, you thought we wouldn't be able to snowshoe. "Let's turn back and go where we always go," you said--more than once, too, I might add. But I told you we should just take a look and then decide.

Aren't you glad we didn't turn around? Because when we finally got to the trail, it looked like this:

And it was packed with people and their dogs. There were lots of little kids, and teenagers, babies strapped to their mothers in fabric slings, daddies pulling their toddlers on plastic sleds, and even some people cross-country skiing through the crowds. The air smelled clean and cold, and the sun shone down on us like a smile from God. 

I put your snowshoes on first, then mine. Judging from the look on your face, you thought we were going to have fun:

"Okay, Mother," you said to me. "Let's get going." So we did. We hit the road--literally. As I told you when we started out, this snowshoeing area was actually an unplowed road. I liked the road: it was flat and well-trod. But you wanted to explore, so we stomped through the deep snow bordering the road. But that was too close to the river's edge, which was not too deep, but full of freezing water that gurgled at us when we looked down at it. 

"You're too close!" I warned you when you shuffled over to the edge to investigate some icicles frozen to the rocks. I was remembering the time you fell into a fountain in San Francisco. I watched you chase your brothers on big slabs of cement sitting atop the water. 

And then you must have slipped, because you fell into the murky depths right after I took this picture. 

I screamed, Dad asked what was wrong, and then you popped right back up, scraping your leg as you pulled yourself back onto the stepping stone. You cried and cried, and when I tried to console you, you pulled away from me and cried and cried some more. We laid your clothes and shoes in the sun and wrapped you in Dad's sweatshirt. While Dad went to search for some band-aids, you sobbed. And still, you wouldn't let me so much as touch your cheek. So I took some pictures to pass the time. 

 

You sure didn't like that. But what could I do? You wouldn't let me do my job as your mother, and it was getting boring just watching you moan and shriek. 

So when I told you to get away from the water, I had to remind you of the fountain. Otherwise, you weren't going to listen. You gave me a look that said, "Oh, Mother, you're such a worry wart." But still, you obeyed. 

About five minutes later, you slumped your shoulders and declared that you had had enough of snowshoeing.

I checked my watch. "But we've only been here for twenty minutes," I said. But you said you were hungry. So even though it was only 10:30, we sat in the snow and ate our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. This made you happy enough. And it was a good photo opportunity. I want you to remember me when I'm relatively young and mobile, so I got in the picture too. 

After lunch, I convinced you that we needed to explore a little more. And so, we started out again. 

Five minutes after that, you collapsed and did this thing:

It was clear to me that I was not going to get a good cardio workout that morning. But this was supposed to be bonding time, too, right? So I took your picture instead of yelling at you. Which probably was better for both of us. Because let's face it, I really wanted to burn some calories so we could go the French pastry shop after we were done. 

I convinced you to go a little further. And then you convinced me that we had been out long enough and it was time to turn around. I said something like, "Humph," and you said something like, "Waaahhhhh, I wanna go home," so we called it a day, even though it was still technically morning.

It didn't take long to get to the car. But when I mentioned the French pastries, you gave me this look:

"Can't we go to Toys-r-Us instead?"

I said no. You cried. But it wasn't a real cry. There were no tears, only the forced sobs of a kid wanting his own way. I know fake-crying well, as I was the master of it when I was your age. (I studied method acting as a toddler.) I waited for you to finish your scene. It didn't take long. After all, you were worn out from all that exercise and had no energy left for drama. So after a few minutes we got in the car and drove home.

I've thought about it, and I've decided that the next time I want to go snowshoeing, I'm taking my sister. 

Love,

Mom 

Comments

[Julie B.]

If I was in Utah I would go with you Susan! I'd go anywhere if a trip to the French Pastry shop was in the deal!

[MaryB]

Dear Jake,

Quality time with Mom is a priceless moment in time. You should really take advantage of being the youngest and get as much of it as you can. However, any time you decide to put it up for grabs call me! I'll take it!

Love,
Aunt Mary :)

[shelby]

A morning you will both remember for a long time, I'm sure! Love it!