Talk to me, until the night is ooooo-verrrr.
I’ve trained them well, which isn’t easy considering not all of them are my own children. This time, there were three of them — my two middle schoolers and a kid from our soccer team — fresh off the ski slopes not far from our house. I’d taken them up there after school on Friday, and we had entirely too much fun.
Every time we got off the ski lift, my boys and I, all skiers, would wait for Drew to strap on his snowboard.
“C’mon, knuckle-dragger!” we’d tease.
“Two-plankers!” he’d shout back, and then we’d all push off down the slopes, navigating the fluffy fresh snow one after the other.
“This snow is delicious!” my sixth grader exclaimed as I pulled up next to him mid-way down the nearly ice-free slope. I made sure he got a little extra of that delicious snow by spraying him with a glorious wave of white the next time we skidded to a halt.
“Moooom!” he complained, laughing. Then we continued down the hill, skiing in sync with each other.
“Another run?” I asked the three of them when we reached the ski lift at the base.
“Yeah!” they agreed in unison, and we queued up behind the bus trip of teens from another town. Once again, we waited for Drew at the top. Once again, we took off down the slope, the knuckle-dragger and the two-plankers, under the lights on a calm winter night.
When it was time to go, we piled our gear into the back of my mini-van, and headed for the pizza place down the highway. I cranked up my Springsteen CD, and they sang along, unprompted.
I’m not asking for the world, you see. I’m just asking, baby, talk to me.
I have six more years until my youngest leaves for college. Will they still ski with me next year? Will they still sing along to my music? Will they still want to hang out with Mom on a Friday night? I suppose not, as it should be.
I’d taken the last run by myself down a black diamond trail that none of them wanted to navigate. After Drew strapped on his snowboard, they all went their way, and I went mine. As it should be — soon enough.