The previously-mentioned ice skating playdate was a success… as much as two 3-year olds ice-skating for the first time can be called “success.” No broken bones, bruises, or (my greatest secret fear) severed fingers, although all of us adults suffered from lower back pain caused by half-carrying the boys around the rink, as neither could stand without their feet whisking out from under them. One has not experienced parenthood until they spend a Saturday evening circling a crowded ice rink, stooped over a small child between their legs, beseeching him to keep his skates on the ice to lessen the unbearable back strain while old Bruce Springsteen songs wail over the loudspeaker and pre-teen boys dart like spooked deer from every unexpected direction.
Luckily, the pace of the open skate was decidedly slow and wobbly, and the biggest obstacles were bodies of all sizes laying prostrate across the ice. I overheard two young male spectators who were waiting for that night’s ice hockey game making cracks about the overall skating ability on display: “Dude, I’ve never seen so much numb nosing,” one said, evidently using uber-cool underground hockey slang for falling face-first onto the ice. Little Boy didn’t fall face first, owing to the constant adult support (particularly from Mr. P, who is a much steadier skater than myself), but he did skid to the ground, where he spent a fair amount of time “resting.”
Even when he did end up on the ground, he laughed. He laughed at other people falling — not meanly, but delightedly. Overall, he did pretty well — his “skiing balance” definitely helped — and he lasted 90 minutes, including the Zamboni break, which was probably his favorite part (if it has wheels and lights, he is entranced). Mr. P started speculating about Little Boy’s future in ice hockey, but too bad: I’m not cut out to be a Hockey Mom.
