My husband is a pretty good skier who can handle most slopes. As I do not engage in sports that entail plummeting down mountains, I’ve never seen him personally, but from what I can gather he’s rather competent. Plus, they sell some sort of sweet waffle thingy up on top of one of the slopes, so he’s quite motivated.
Nonetheless, he tends to hurt himself when he skis with Zachary. Bruised shoulders, close encounters of the tree kind, that sort of thing. When Zachary is in lessons, J is fine, but the minute they spend a day together, somehow my husband comes home all beat-up. I’m just glad he wears a helmet, because if he did to his head what he does to his body when he’s showing off for the nine-year-old, he’d be brain-dead by this point.
On Tuesday, the younger two were in lessons, but Zach and J were skiing together. “Don’t hurt your father,” I admonished.
No one ever listens to me.
J came home on Tuesday with a sore side to go with the bruised shoulder he’d scored the week before. Something about a mogul.
It wasn’t too bad for the first couple of days, but now we’re back home and he’s lying on the couch in tremendous pain, consulting with Dr. Google about what to do. I instead asked Dr. Google for the number of Dr. Human and dialed it for him. Did you know when you break a rib, they tell you to take Advil and call in two weeks if it hurts? Billions of dollars in medical research, and they told him to take two aspirin and call them in the morning.
This all—by the way—validates my contention that one should not engage in sports that entail plummeting down mountains.
Not to be self-absorbed or anything, but this here injury is putting a tremendous burden on me. I don’t mind being in charge of all snow removal, teeth brushing, meal preparation, kitchen sweeping, laundry, and pajama wrangling. I’m fine with all that. It’s par for the course that when one co-parent is down for the count, the other one runs with the ball. (Did you see that? THREE different sports metaphors in one sentence. I’m a veritable jock.)
However, every time he laughs, he exacerbates the pain tremendously. So, he can’t be mirthful for the next few weeks. This means, I’m not allowed to be funny. At all.
I had absolutely no idea how often I make this man laugh. While it’s supposed to be all awesome for a marriage to make one another laugh after nineteen years together, it’s kind of a problem now. Every time I come in the room, I inadvertently do or say something that makes him laugh.
I usually let people vet the posts I write about them, but on the off chance there’s something funny in here, I can’t let him see it. “Just don’t make me seem like a putz,” he admonished. “I’m a good skier.”
So, should anyone run into my husband over the next few weeks, please assure him that I in no way maligned his skiing skills. But, for the love of all that is decent and holy, don’t say anything funny.