I’m just now getting the feeling back in my legs and lower back, so I can finally sit down and write about the family Christmas ski vacation that wasn’t.
Every year, my wife and I pack up the kids and drive to New Hampshire for a week of skiing.
This year, however, my wife is running her clothing design business and Christmas week is a time to make money, not pretend she’s Claudine Longet and I’m Spider Sabich. (just Google it, OK?)
I figured I would take the kids for at least a few days. But then I noticed a disturbing lack of the one thing you need to ski. Yes, a second mortgage. But also, snow. There’s not a flake of natural snow bewteen Long Island Sound and the Canadian border. Sure there’s a few trails open, but that’s like going to see The New Cars — it’s just not the same.
The chances of me driving five hours and spending full price to ski on a ribbon of white surrounded by brown dirt is about the same as Donald Trump and Rosie siring a child.
So Christmas week was me home alone with the children. Horror movies have been based on scenarios like this.
The first challenge was limiting the TV time. It took the strength of a thousand mastodons to not pick up that remote and see what the Disney Channel was showing. I settled on one morning show (Higglytown Heroes), one Barbie movie around lunchtime and one afternoon show (Dragon Tails). Hopefully, that won’t get me kicked out of the parenting union.
The rest of the day was spent sitting on the floor playing Candy Land and a knockoff called The Ladybug Game (hence the lack of feeling in the lower extremeties), trying to stay out of the way as the girls ran around the house screaming (apparently a 6-year-old girl’s favorite hobby) and unsuccessfully trying to set up a play date with kids whose parents had the wisdom of heading south or sending the kids to grandma’s house.
But hey, everyone ended up having a good time. "Charlotte’s Web" was charming and the local kids’ museums are always fun. Next year, though, there better be more white stuff than in "Scarface."