On Saturday, I bathed Jonah and put him in some fresh clothes for the birthday party. He had the flu for six days, and I hoped that some outside activity might jump start his white blood count.
The party was at the local ice skating rink, which is a shrine to a skating hero from the 50s. Faded pictures of him in a spangled bodysuit hang above the cash register.
We strapped on the skates pretending not to be sick.
This was Jonah’s first real time skating. When I was six, I had already logged a lot of time skating on the local frozen pond. It just doesn’t seem to get that cold anymore.
First step on the ice and Jonah wiped out in classic form. Feet up in the air and butt thumping the ice. He clutched the wall, and we inched our way around the rink. “Want a break, Jonah?” “No.”
Then he slowly moved away from the wall and made his way around by frantically shuffling of his feet. “No, Jonah. You’re moving your feet too much. It’s step, step, slide. Step, step, slide.” Then wipeout. Wipeout. Wipeout.
“Jonah, do you want a break? No.”
So, we worked our way around and around. And I kept fishing him off the ice and setting himself on his feet. He friend, Dylan, goofed around in the corner of the rink, but Jonah kept on going. He watched the big boys hotdog around in their hockey skates with awe.
Around we went for an hour and a half, occasionally sharing the one grimy tissue in my pocket. I remembered some old moves and did a little backwards action. And then Jonah looked up at me with a big smile. “Four times around without falling, mom.” He stepped, stepped, slid like a pro.
Bill shouted that it was cake time and we had to get off the ice. We were the last ones to return our skates. “But mom, I don’t want cake. (cough) I want to go back on the ice. (cough) I want to try a hockey stop. (whine, sniff)” “It’s over, Jo. We’ll come back next week.”
Big hugs for the kid who never gives up.
(I’m really sick as a dog. Please excuse any blogging interruptions this week.)
Apt. 11d 