by tommy kirchhoff
From high-alt sleep and mountain dreams
drifts up a soft 'tip-tap.'
I gently thwart, drift back to themes
of warm and numbing nap.
On my arm, an intent child wrings;
I wake for this boy's bid.
I start on the one hundred things
to go skiing with my kid.
My slippers, robe; a bathroom run,
a meal he won't resist.
I rib him in some morning fun,
then rattle off the list:
Goggles, hat and gloves; jacket, pants,
skis, poles, boots: count each twice.
Dress layers for the weather's chance
and smooth the socks out nice.
Out the door, still counting things,
I stuff them in the car.
I work like mad--the kid just sings--
both glad to be this far.
Across the ice we carefully crawl
our car up to the lot.
Then boots and sunscreen keep us stalled
then finally we're brought!
The day does test my diplomat,
he's small but his will smothers.
He spills hot chocolate on his hat--
demands I buy another.
He ignores my rules, sings and cheers,|
turns left when I say right.
He skis too fast, fulfills my fears
and crashes hard, by rite.
My boy tires as the ski day ends,
still laughing at my whim.
We waddle down through wooded glens--
Loudly, I sing with him.
Ski days are jolting, parents know,
a pride and panic hybrid--
I govern and I must let go,
that's skiing with my kid.