DuBose: To worry, or not to worry about son’s ski trip
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It’s counterintuitive for me to send my 13-year-old on an 18-hour-long day trip to a ski area four hours away.
In another state.
Without me.
The moderator of Noah’s ski club said that the kids would each pair up with a buddy and would wear pinneys identifying them as Rotolo Middle School students. She also assured me that she and another teacher – and their spouses – would chaperone and that the students would be required to check in with them. There were to be no parent-chaperones, and none were needed, thank you very much.
But that didn’t mean that I couldn’t make the drive to Granite Peak myself, right? Um, no, not unless I wanted my son – who would be among the oldest kids in the group – to be “the only loser with a parent there,” as he so eloquently put it. But I wasn’t thrilled, and not just because I knew I’d miss out on some good skiing (well, maybe that was part of it). The fact is, I wanted to be there. I’ve skied my whole life and have a healthy respect for the inherent dangers, not to mention a pretty good idea about the mischief a bunch of adolescents can make when faced with that kind of freedom.
“You just have to trust that you’ve done a good job,” my mother reassured me when I mentioned my concerns. OK, but what if something happened and Noah got hurt? I ended up deciding that the chances of him suffering grave humiliation at my presence were far greater than any physical injury he might sustain, whether I was there or not. Half an hour after the bus departed from the middle school, however, I got an email news alert from a local media outlet saying a school bus crash sent 11 to a hospital with minor injuries. It wasn’t until after the adrenaline and regret made their mad dashes through my veins that I learned that the accident in question had happened the day before (en route to Krejci Academy in Naperville). Two days after the trip I happened upon another scary story, about the tragic death of a teenager who died falling off a chairlift at a ski resort in Utah.
Stories like these give a mother pause, but timing, as they say, is everything. So I didn’t tag along.
But I made sure he was ready.
The morning of the trip, as Noah gathered his gear, I pulled his food out of the fridge. It was to be a long day. He would need a lot. I might not be there, but I could still feed him, right?
“I put everything in lunch bags, with your breakfast for the bus on top,” I whispered, as Holly was still asleep. I got nothing but a blank stare in response, so I unzipped the insulated bag and showed him. “See?”
“I know, Mom, you marked them.” Along with breakfast I’d packed, lunch, snacks and money for dinner. “It’s like you gave me rations,” he added wryly.
• • •
“Don’t forget to call a couple of times,” I said as I hugged him goodbye a few minutes later. It was 5 a.m.
“Does this count as one?” he asked, when I called 60 seconds after he and his father pulled out of the driveway.
“Ha ha! Nice try,” I replied. “Make sure you wear your helmet, because if you don’t, I’ll know. And if you ever do hit your head, and feel even the slightest bit dizzy or off, tell an adult and let the ski patrol look you over. ’cause you know,” I added, “that’s how Natasha Richardson died. She didn’t do anything about it for a while, and by then it was too late.”
“Yes, I know, remember, Buddy?” he said, adopting that talking-to-a-child lilt he uses on the rare occasion that we’re shopping and I’m so overtired that I get distracted and become momentarily mesmerized by the shiny objects near the register. I was being pathetic and Noah knew it. “Remember? We watched it together? Sad story,” he continued, in that voice.
“And have fun!” I added.
“I will, if you don’t keep doing this,” he replied, before I told him that I loved him. I know, I know, there’s a spot waiting for me in the kill-joy hall of fame.
I sipped a glass of water in the dark as I glanced out the kitchen window at the freshly fallen snow. Would the bus ride be slippery, I wondered? Would the kids be OK? But then it occurred to me that once they got to where they were going the new snow would make for some great skiing. And soft landings, I decided, as I tiptoed back to bed.
• • •
Noah did call. Twice.
“Do you think that if I brought home all of the food you made, it would be OK?” he asked, the second time. “I’m eating none of it,” he confessed. “I’m eating cheese curds.” Nice. But hey, he was in Wisconsin, right? And to think I was worried.
