Years ago, when my family lived in a different community, my older girls received ice skates for a Christmas gift. At that time, Maria was barely walking; her skates were so tiny that I was sure they'd been specially ordered. We had a small pond near our house -- really just a low spot where water drained. Shawn and I swept off the snow and attempted to teach Laura, Carmen and Maria to ice-skate. They learned in fits and starts; after a few winters we began taking them to the small community ice rink in town. Shawn and I even purchased skates of our own, a bargain at a second-hand store that allowed us to fall on our rumps as often as the girls did. Neither one of us ice -skated while growing up, although we knew the basics just from having roller-skated as kids. Although it wasn't the girls' favorite winter activity and none of them became that proficient at it, the three of them learned enough to be able to manage when they were invited to skating parties.
Now, raising our "second set" of kids, we live on a different ranch, and lead a much busier lifestyle. Teaching Cody, Emily and Katie to ice-skate has not been a priority; our leisure time in winter is so limited that we usually just take them sledding on the hills near our house or have a quick snowball fight. Time to really teach -- time for them to really learn -- a new skill seems eaten up by work and school obligations, older sisters' activities, community involvements.
Yesterday, determined to not let February slip by without at least getting my younger three on the ice, I took them into the basement to fit them with ice skates from the assortment we'd accumulated over the years. Most of the skates that Carmen and Maria grew through are now too small for Emily and Katie's feet. Cody ended up wearing an old pair of mine, too snug for me and a bit too loose for him; Emily and Katie had to share one pair that was somewhere between their sizes. Already feeling frustrated, I got them suited up in the requisite winter gear, grabbed a couple sleds and set off across corral lots and pastures towards the nearest reservoir. Of course, in my hurry to get out the door, I forgot a shovel or broom to clear the ice. Once we stumbled upon the reservoir, we had to use our feet and the edge of the sleds to clear the snow off. The water/ice level was very low: during this long winter of freeze and thaw cycles, a small hole in the dam -- probably a muskrat burrow -- had caved in, and most of the reservoir water had flooded down to the river. What remained was frozen, but only a few inches deep. Nonetheless, we cleared a very small space, probably no bigger than my dining room floor, and I helped each child out onto the ice.
I've probably given more successful ice-skating lessons. Cody got bored immediately: the space I'd cleared was so small, and my old skates so dull, that he couldn't get enough speed or thrill to keep his 9-year-old attention. Emily, on the other hand, was scared to death, and never stood fully straight the entire time: she bent double, clutching at my hands, convinced that her feet would splay out and break her legs. Only Katie really enjoyed the skating, moving up from holding both of my hands, to just one, to finally skating a few strides by herself. She fell, but mastered the art of standing back up on ice skates quickly.
We stayed there for nearly two hours: because the water level was so low, we were surrounded by the dam edges, out of the wind and warmed by the February sun. Cody left to explore the animal tracks around, sure that he would spot a bobcat or coyote. Emily, a rather courageous sledder, slid down the reservoir slopes out onto the ice. Katie and I played around on our tiny, makeshift rink; our five dogs spread out around the area, sunning themselves or following Cody. Our trip home included a stop to pet Cody's horse; later, I made the trek back out to the reservoir alone, to retrieve Cody's coat and gloves left behind.
If my kids lived in town, they could go to the local ice rink every weekend, even take lessons from a real teacher. They would probably own skates that fit, and that were sharpened properly. I'm not going to win mother of the year for my little venture to the reservoir with them yesterday; many kids would call our trip boring. Certainly the skater kids that I often see at my work would scoff at my kids' third- or fourth-hand skates, the tiny, bumpy rink, the snowy, un-Zambooni'd ice.
But just like the tiny muskrat burrow that became a gaping hole, I hope my tiny effort yesterday becomes a lesson for my kids. It probably won't be remembered as a lesson about how to ice-skate! Hopefully, though, it will be remembered as a lesson in making do with what you have; in making one's own recreation; and in enjoying the gifts life offers, even if they are simple gifts like nice weather, family, and pets. I'm not sure you'll ever see my kids on the hockey team or in figure-skating competitions; but hopefully, you will see my kids trying their best, teaching themselves, and doing whatever they love to do.
