outdoor hot tub | Good Times with Jess

When Captain and I were whisking away on ski weekends with a bag thrown over our shoulders, I day dreamed about skiing with our future children.

Somehow I forgot to daydream about the impossibly overloaded luggage carts, overstuffed car, and children capable of putting everything on themselves when asked by their ski instructors, but capable of nothing when they see me.

I didn’t know that for ski trips each child would require two stuffies in addition to their lovie, plus RB’s huge music machine that is meant to attach to a crib, which we no longer need.

As our luggage cart obstructed the lobby, I took stock of the next two luggage carts. That family wasn’t traveling light either. They had a snoo bassinet and a full-size high chair.

We don’t need a high chair, so there’s room for extra stuffies.

This does include food for the week. Plus 3 ski jackets for me.
I own them, so if not now, then when?

This was a miracle year. It is the first year we all skied together the four of us. We rode the lift together and went down fun, blue-square trails. Not quite at the speed I would choose, but getting there.

The second best part after skiing was the outdoor hot tub/pool situation.

Skiing is how Captain and I met, and sitting in the hot tub together is a little bit of heaven. I sipped my beer and gazed at our children in the pool. I said to Captain,

“Can you believe this is how it started and now look at us?”

“Not an entirely unpredictable trajectory.”

Right.

I felt the same way after giving birth to BB. It was UNBELIEVABLE, yet millions of people have been giving birth for millions of years.

We’re just one of many couples falling in love in a hot tub and returning to it with the consequences.

My joy was splashed away the minute our children took to deep-sea swimming in the hot tub. There are age rules for hot tubs, but I don’t think that’s necessary. The only rule should be:

“Do you need goggles for the hot tub?”

“Yes?”

“YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED.”

And parents aren’t allowed in ski school. When I say it was amazing to ski together the four of us, it was amazing to ski together from 2pm-3pm.

And it was amazing to ski harder and faster with Captain the rest of the time.

I have perfected getting RB on the chairlift. It only took one time with her dangling down to make sure that didn’t happen again.

This is all thanks to wonderful instruction from ski school.

As I was putting BB to bed, she snuggled up to me and said,

“I’m lucky you’re my mama.”

After I was done melting, I asked,

“I’m lucky! What made you say that?”

“You’re not a mean ski instructor.”

“You had a mean ski instructor?!!”

“NO! The ski instructors are so nice. But some kids have to go from their really nice ski instructors to their mean, ski-instructor parents. I hear them yelling at their kids. And you just say, ‘Lead the way!'”

This is one of the very good reasons we pay for ski school. I can keep the mean, ski-instructor parent dormant inside me.

Of course the minute BB saw RB skiing, she didn’t attempt to hold her tongue. BB yelled,

“Turn RB! Lean forward. You have to stay forward!”

At which point RB told me,

“My tummy hurts, I need to go potty NOW.”

RB and I zipped down the mountain faster than BB would ever want to go. RB skied straight, leaned back, took full advantage of her wedge and we made it to the bathroom. We’ve got the skills we need.

Afterwards BB told me,

“At ski school they say: ‘No pee. No ski.'”

I have a new life motto.

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?”

“Skiing!”

“Again?!”

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?”

“Yes.”

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.”

Captain adds,

“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.