To Tremblant and back again. That’s a seven hour car ride one way and when we stopped fifteen minutes in to empty BB’s vomit bucket, the road ahead looked very long.
We made it. It was worth it. I skied. BB skied. RB skied. And Captain snowboarded. We did that for five days straight. As our last morning dawned and my weather app warned me it was -1°F, RB asked,
“What are we doing today?”
I wavered. But not for long. This is why I brought layers: three sets of long underwear to be worn all at once. Captain asked,
“What about their mobility?”
“Mobility? They just need to hold a wedge.”
I never used a ski app before this week. I marveled at my stats. I tell Captain,
“My top speed was 47mph!”
Captain looks incredulous,
“Is that correct?”
“I don’t know, but I’m going with it.”
We ended our last day going much slower as BB led us down her favorite greens. Aside from a hit and run, I didn’t fall all vacation, but my luck ran out.
I spent a fair amount of time pushing BB up a little jump she wanted to do, so when I saw her approaching another one without enough speed I had the bright idea to ski up behind her and give her a push on my way.
Somehow she didn’t move and somehow I managed to ski over her. She went between my legs. Her head caught my crotch and I did a massive face plant on the flat traverse.
It may have been worth it considering BB’s loud cackle, but middle age is taking its toll. It took far too long to figure out how to get myself unface down. I didn’t pull anything falling, but I did pull something getting up.
That’s the last time I go 5mph and try to do anything fancy.
RB seems to have the whole thing figured out. She told me,
“You can get going, but it’s hard to stop.”
I watched her get on the magic carpet all by herself. I exclaimed to Captain,
“Look! She’s so capable!”
She proceeded to notice a pile of snow, swing a ski out to touch it and collapsed. The magic carpet stopped. An instructor walked along next to her for the remainder of the ride.
We did this trip with my dear friend and her family, including two, very cool, big kids. A miracle happened. RB was embarrassed to do her nightly poop in her diaper. Halfway through the vacation she pooped in the potty.
One time. Captain and I weren’t counting any chickens.
Two times. Gotta say things look promising.
Three times. Well this just might do it!
On our last day, after ten hours of travel, we were thirty minutes from home, RB said,
“My tummy hurts.”
“Do you need the potty?”
We’re so close to home.
“Can you wait until we get home?”
“I need the potty.”
We stop. She settles in to the gas station bathroom. She looks up at me,
“I need a book.”
Fourth poop in the potty. Done deal. Bye bye diapers.
The next night at home, she gets up from the dinner table and declares,
“I need a diaper to poop!”
“OH NO NO. If you can poop in a gas station bathroom, you can poop in the potty ANYWHERE.”
“Even I don’t like to poop in a gas station bathroom.”
Nor I. Even if I do have a book.
P.S. For anyone going from Canada to the US, you’re not allowed to bring citrus with you, but if you put it in the luggage carrier on the car roof, the border patrol agent will give you a pained, annoyed look and wave you through.