A SLIPPERY SLOPE

By Chaya Sara Schlussel

Last year, during Chanukah vacation, I got the ingenious idea to take my family skiing. I know what you’re thinking, but no, I didn’t fall and hit my head on the edge of the menorah stand, knocking the common sense right out of my brain. I just thought it would be a fun thing to try! For all you fellow mothers out there, take a word of advice from someone who’s been there, done that: The next time you even entertain the thought of having ‘fun’ with your kids, try playing a subdued game of Othello. Or checkers. Or Backgammon. Whatever. After last winter’s vacation, those board games sound like the most exciting, most adventurous kind of ‘fun’ I’d ever again propose to try with my kiddiozos.
If you read my previous winter article about boots, you already know how much I ‘love’ the cold. Well, imagine how I had to bundle each of us up for a trip down the slopes! By the time I was finished piling on the outerwear, we all looked like the overstuffed pigeons Simcha Felder is trying to stop feeding. I then rolled, squeezed, and shoved everybody into the car. We were on our way.
Oh! One other thing I forgot to mention: None of us had even the vaguest clue how to ski. But, as the saying goes, there’s a first time for everything. Sure, we’d watched people come trailing down the slopes before - but that was always from a secure distance, in the relative safety of a snow tube, or the relative comfort of a warm car. Funny; up until the moment I got the brilliant brain-wave to put myself and my offspring on skis, I’d always preferred rides that had me starting off on my backside, rather than ending up there. But now, we’d be joining the ranks of alpinists, whooshing down the mountain with the wind whipping through our hair (and my shaitel) and the snow nipping at our heels. What a horrific - I mean, terrific - thought!
The first ski instructor we were introduced to, took one look at my high-strung, energy-overloaded litter of hyperactive children, excused himself for a minute, and never returned. We waited a full half hour before the ski resort found someone else who was willing to take on my little prides and joys, and teach us the fundamentals of coming down a mountain. We were each given sticks for our feet, sticks for our hands, and rudimentary warnings about not going too fast, not going too slow, not going backwards, and not plowing headlong into stationary objects or fellow human beings. We put on goggles that made us look like bug-eyed frogs. We were told to bend at the knees, lean forward, and try not to veer off the designated ski paths. Otherwise, the guy said ominously, we might go riding right off the edge of the slope, and into the great white unknown. I gulped. For the first time that day, it dawned on me that maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t such a brilliant idea after all.
The trip up the mountain was a living nightmare. In open, two-passenger ski lifts, with ski-shod legs dangling thousands of feet over the ground, we ascended. I couldn’t stop yelling at my three year old, who was traveling in the car behind me. “Don’t lean forward! Don’t lean backward! Just don’t move!!” I kept screaming at the top of my lungs at my five year old, who was sitting in the car ahead of me, “Stop swaying! Stop rocking the seat! Don’t turn around!” I kept shouting at the six year old who was sitting right near me, “Don’t look up! Don’t look down! Don’t look behind you, don’t look in front of you, and don’t close your eyes!!” I was sure people for miles in all directions were watching in wonder: the snowbound madwoman in a chairlift. I had visions of the eight of us sailing through the air, landing somewhere in the ‘great white unknown’ that guy had mentioned earlier. By the time we reached the top, my nerves were already completely frayed. And we hadn’t yet begun to ski.
Before I even got my bearings, a speeding, white blur of snow whipped past me, heading straight down the mountain. I thought maybe it was an avalanche. Maybe somebody had thrown a colossal snowball. No! Wait a minute!! It’s my kid!!! My three year old was on his way down so fast, I barely had time to react. Like a drunken woman in oversized clown shoes, holding the sticks up over my head like a lunatic, I plodded my way after him, frantically trampling, tripping, and squishing my way down the slope. I flew through the snow, airborne at 50 miles per hour, screeching my head off all the way. People stopped skiing to watch my record-breaking descent. I kept hoping somebody would stop me, but instead everyone just veered right out of my path - probably running for their lives. I kept yelling, “Shmelky, look out! Here I come!” I was a white, howling ghost, with both poled hands raised in pure, petrified terror.
I heard my husband calling my name from behind, before I went head-over-heels, on my face, in the freezing snow. When I first lifted my head out of the flurries, for some strange reason, I couldn’t see anything. There was wet, white hair in my mouth. It took me a moment to realize my shaitel had spun backwards. I quickly readjusted it, took a deep breath, and continued my haphazard rumble-stumble-tumble down the trail. One of my poles had gotten lost in the melee, and my right ski had broken loose. The laces on my left boot were now untied, and I’d ripped the middle finger off my left glove. Still, I plunged onward.
At that moment, my five year old zipped past me, heading straight for a tree. Again, I shrieked and cackled until I thought my vocal chords would burst right out of my throat. My son paid no attention to me at all. At the last second, he steered away from the bark, and made his way, rather easily, to the finish line. He cheered with happiness - he was so proud of himself. I followed him, flakes covering my earlobes, nostrils, eyelashes and eyebrows, all the way to the bottom. Then I just plopped down and cried. I looked and felt like a gigantic, wild-eyed, weeping snowman (or snowwoman?).
Readers, please remind me of this occasion, the next time I get the bright idea to have ‘fun’ with my kids. For this upcoming Chanukah vacation, I’ve already prepared a good ol’ game of Othello.   

Note: This and other humor articles by the author are fictitious, and intended for entertainment purposes only. This is not an autobiography. Character names have been fabricated to protect the privacy of individuals referred to. Stories bear no resemblance to true life incidents.
Chaya Sara Schlussel is available for all types of writing assignments!
718-972-2944
amschlussel@yahoo.com