I careened through a cloud of snow and ice down the slopes in Lake Tahoe. The ski lift at the lodge grew larger in view as I picked up speed, and I could feel the stunned stares of onlookers below. Perhaps it was my Momoa-brown hair billowing beneath my helmet or my new Rossignol skis flying through the California winter sky. Or perhaps it was because I was skidding down a black diamond on my chest like a Wintery Superman. While my gloved hands pawed at the speeding snow in search of brakes I thought, “I think I’m done for today.”
After several mouthfuls of shaved ice, I came to rest on skier’s right ¾ of the way down my last run of the day. I lay there with my cheek pressed into the snow, and I thought about how much I sucked at skiing. And I thought about my sons.
They’re only preschoolers, but it’s only a matter of time before they’re dropping into alpine terrain that would turn their old man from Wintery Superman into a Wintery Deadman. How could I ever protect them if I’m cowering on the edge of a couloir or buried in waste-deep powder while my precious boys thread their way through trees and steeps far beyond my abilities? And how will they become men if I’m too sucky at skiing to teach them?
I HAVE to get better at skiing.
My ligaments screamed and strained as I pressed myself upright on my skis again. I looked out at the lake, and I tried to focus on my next few moves.
Plant your left pole. Weight on your right leg. SACK UP! … Don’t cry.
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. I tried to visualize my next few turns, but all I could think about was the YMCA. My mind traveled back to swim lessons with my oldest. Though he was only three years old, I prodded him into the big pool where his older classmates glided like eels through the water. My son splashed and thrashed in their wake. The water bubbled and boiled around him while he tried to use his “big arms” to stay afloat. But just when I started to get nervous for his safety, he flipped around onto his back and poked his round face up to the surface. His little legs churned beneath him, desperate to keep pace with his buddies. He gasped for air with staccato breaths. And he was singing.
He was the worst swimmer in that pool, but he was singing.
I made a few sad turns back to the lodge in Tahoe, avoiding eye contact with the half dozen people milling about near the lift line. I unclipped my bindings, gathered my gear, and slumped into my seat on the shuttle back home. It was 3:18pm, and I was quitting. “Maybe I should just stick to what I’m good at,” I thought. “Like cooking. Or watching sports. Or Mario Kart.” Why would I put myself through this pain and self-loathing in my precious few hours of freedom each day? I closed my eyes on the shuttle and went back to the YMCA.
“I don’t LIKE swimming,” said my oldest. We were late for his lesson, and I had some parenting to do.
“That’s not true!” I countered. “You have so much fun in the pool! I always see you floating on your back, singing your songs!”
“But it’s haaaarrd.”
I got down on one knee and looked him in the eye. “I know it’s hard and it’s frustrating. But you want to be a good swimmer, right? At first, swimming will be hard. But it will get easier and easier each time. It’s hard right now, but you can do it… and if you don’t, I will eat all your cookies for dessert tonight.”
“What a hypocrite,” I thought as I sidestepped down the icy stairs of the shuttle, skis and poles in-hand. I wished I was an expert in every manly endeavor life could offer my growing boys. But I couldn’t fix stuff, I didn’t know anything about cars, and I was pretty average at sports other than Mario Kart. Also, I sucked at skiing. Worse, I was butthurt about it. Learning was haaaarrd. With that kind of attitude, somebody should eat all of my cookies too.
I returned to our cabin and sheepishly looked for my boys. They were drinking hot chocolate, watching Paw Patrol and barely noticed me stumbling in from the cold. They didn’t care that I quit early. But someday they might. Someday they’ll realize that I suck at skiing. Someday, they’ll see me as I am: a weak, vulnerable, and butthurt human. But that might be perfect. I’ll bet they don’t need the do-it-all, know-it-all, perfect superhero dad. What they need is a Wintery Superman; a Hero who can slide down a black diamond on his belly, bury himself in powder, and still come home with a smile on his face. They’ll need a dad who does hard things and fails and gets butthurt and keeps trying anyway. They’ll need a dad who is like them.
So the next time I turn myself into Wintery Superman, I’ll try to channel that childlike learning environment my boys enjoy. I’ll learn better, faster, and more joyfully. I’ll lead and teach and learn by example.
And this time, I’ll be singing.