Pack of Terrain boys on Buttermilk

Well, I made it through the first day of spring break with Bono’s lyrics stuck in my head, like a skipping record, “Some days are better than others.”

The day began when I awoke from a dream where a reporter from the New York Times was interviewing me and asking me about my success as a writer. “How did you do it,” he asked me. “How did you become such a successful writer with three kids in tow?” And I answered, “Not very well.”

I mean really! They say if you multi-task none of your jobs will be done 100% efficiently but I learned early that being a dreamer does not coincide with being a perfectionist and I thrive off of chaos.

This morning I shuffled to my office and began reading and typing with my eyelashes still woven together, my body still warm from slumber. After inhaling a cup of java, which I try not to drink anymore because I become a bundle of dynamite ready to blow, I made a business phone call where I faked professionalism, not very well.

I hung up the phone completely confused and looked at my watch realizing that I was way behind schedule. I would now have to face an angry Brevitt who truly needs to see an enormous paycheck in my hand to better understand why my computer is my ball and chain. He cut me a bit of slack knowing that Tucker was contributing to my lateness and that I can only be as on time as Tucker will allow.

He is quite the adorable little boy, that Tucker, singing and dancing around the house with that sweet  little  voice, but he tests my patience. It’s not his fault really, he is only five, and absolutely unable to finish a task without getting distracted and turning it into a game.

The trick is, when I need him to get something done so that we can get out of the door I must stay near him, nudging him to stay on course. “Tucker,” I sing as I see him sliding across the floor naked, all but his ski socks, “Did you forget that you were putting your ski clothes on?”

Tucker is not our only challenge. When we got to the slopes we realized that Brevitt’s skis were missing and we had to drive an extra forty minutes to retrieve them, which was quite frustrating, and irritating, until I realized that I too had forgotten something very important, my wallet.

Axel got the giggles in the car as I tried to retain some semblance of sanity by doing some deep breathing. “You sound like Darth Vader,” he said and I began to daydream about slipping over to the dark and evil side.

We got on to the slopes by 12:30, along with the other crack of noon club, and I prayed for deliverance as Tucker whined and the boys sucked down the free coffee loaded with artificial creamer and as many sugar packets as they could open, before I discovered them.

Axel’s ski broke on our first run and I thought that I might very well just become the next “Crazy Heart.”

At lunch, Tucker’s pizza slice flipped face side down on to my ski pants and I told Bono to shut the hell up. Hearing the cashier ask the cute women in front of me how her day was going, I warned him not to ask me that same question. With a smile, he told me that nobody should have a bad day today, being that it was so beautiful outside, and he comped me the slice of pizza. That was all I needed, a great big adorable southern smile and a tiny offering of sympathy.

After skiing we raced to teacher conferences where I soaked in all that the teacher’s were saying about my children who apparently push the rules and think differently than the others.

When we got home I let out my pack to run with the car and  I now have uncorked a bottle of Pinot Noir so that I can taste that deliciously dark and warm essence of cherry on my palate and unhinge the day on paper, so to speak.

Hopefully, tomorrow will bring a different tune when I take my posse up to the Glenwood Caverns for some laser tag and alpine sledding.

LYRICS TO SOME DAYS ARE BETTER THAN OTHERS

Some days are dry, some days are leaky
Some days come clean, other days are sneaky.
Some days take less, but most days take more
Some slip through your fingers and on to the floor.
Some days you’re quick, but most days you’re speedy
Some days you use more force than is necessary.
Some days just drop in on us.
Some days are better than others.
Some days it all adds up
And what you’ve got is enough.
Some days are better than others.

Some days are slippy, other days are sloppy;
Some days you can’t stand the sight of a puppy.
Your skin is white, but you think you’re a brother.
Some days are better than others.
Some days you wake up with her complaining.
Some sunny days you wish it was raining.
Some days are sulky, some days have a grin;
And some days have bouncers and won’t let you in.
Some days you hear a voice
Taking you to another place.
Some days are better than others.

Some days are honest, some days are not;
Some days you’re thankful for what you’ve got.
Some days you wake up in the army
And some days it’s the enemy.
Some days are work, most days you’re lazy;
Some days you feel like a bit of a baby
Lookin’ for Jesus and his mother.
Some days are better than others.
Some days you feel ahead;
You’re making sense of what she said.
Some days are better than others.

Some days I hear a voice taking me to another place.
Some days are better then others.

View from the top of Aspen Mountain

I opened the tailgate and, once again, unloaded the car to prepare for the slopes as Tucker chatted away and people on their way to work smiled and commented.

That is the beauty of the town of Aspen, store owners, employees, families, shoppers and tourists alike all share one common thread, our love for the outdoors and for Ajax Mountain that sits as our idol, a proud centerpiece in town, with skiers gliding down majestic slopes, the spray from their skis glittering invitingly in the wake of their turns.

The boys gleefully stomped their way to the gondola, passing the casually dressed lawyers and the beautifully dressed old world locals and Europeans alongside the not so beautifully dressed Nouveau Riche, who wear their stiletto boots with pride as they navigate the snowy streets and whose tight pants are congruent with their cosmetically altered faces.

The boys ignore their disheveled, overly caffeinated mom behind them,  burdened with ski and blogging equipment.

The thought has occurred to me that I could leave my voice recorder and 35mm camera at home, but I wouldn’t want to have to rely upon my incredibly dysfunctional brain to remember everything.

As we get on the gondola, I exhale a huge sigh of relief, thankful for the four mountains we have to play on over spring break and ready to take on my large posse of boys.

Aspen Mountain looming over town in the summertime.

Photo from the official Aspen Snowmass 2009 Vacation Planner

My father got his three daughters on skis at the early age of three and dragged us out to the icy Vermont slopes rain or shine. I thank him for giving me a sport that gives me an absolute feeling of freedom without the fear. But in this moment in time, as I watched my friend ski down the foreboding ski slope, the fear came on strong.

I had no choice but to follow and as I made the leap my skis caught a twig and I plummeted down into a deep crevasse. I landed at the bottom with my heart racing. I looked way up and saw light and safety above but I was underneath the snow and I was hyperventilating with the fear that if I moved at all the snow would cave in and suffocate me. I wasn’t ready to die, I still had so much more to show and teach my children and I wanted to grow old with Wade.

A voice inside my head shouted, “CALM DOWN.” I listened, knowing that the next few seconds could save or kill me.

I awoke from my dream, my pajamas drenched with sweat and my heart pounding and I heard the message loud and clear.

During Christmas break I have been doing my best to keep the boys busy outside, despite the freezing temperatures, moving them from sled hills to skating rinks to ski slopes packed with boozed infused tourists and crazy locals.

I need to calm my twitch and find my inner calm and we all need a day at home.