"Meadow-good, Ocean-not so good" - this would be the text that I received from my man when I asked how ski lessons were going. Brief, to the point, this texting business, but, oh so vague. Now, I had a million questions.
I patiently waited until the end of the lesson, then immediately called him up, "What do you mean Ocean's is not good?" I started firing my million questions at him in that calm wifely/motherly manner. I am not sure which question I was on, when I realized that he was repeating himself, "Can you wait until we get home?"
Sure, I was already calculating in my head exactly what time that should be.
Meaningless tasks formed the next hour until, finally, my little boy walked through the back door.
This is when it gets a little harder. Communication is a human need nearly as strong as the need for nourishment. Some have the ability to string words together to form a beautiful melody that is breathtaking in its own right. Others may speak very little, but their actions are worth volumes. Words have the power to heal, and to wound. My human nature cries out to have someone to listen, someone to care. Isn't everyone the same? Isn't Ocean?
I ask Ocean how he is, if encouraged, he will give me the thumbs up, "good". However, it will be his father who tells me of this stubbornness to put on his skis, his lack of cooperation with his instructor. Thus begins the guessing game that has made up much of Ocean's life. Do his boots fit? Was he scared of the grade of the hill? Was he timid with his new instructor? Was he experiencing any pain?
We conclude that my presence may be helpful to him the next week.
On our return to the hill, I am fairly confident that I can persuade him to ski. So, I tuck his skis under my arm, grab his little hand, and walk over to the beginner area to meet his instructor, Adam. I spend the next few moments filling him in on a bit of Ocean's history, all the while I am intensely studying him from behind my sunglasses. I have my doubts. He is young, and a man of few words himself, maybe not a good match for Ocean? Well, we are here, let's give this an effort. I bend over to help Ocean snap into his skis, when a sharp crack to my shin from his other boot causes me to cry out. What in the...?! Before I can truly respond, my sweet gentle Ocean has become another child. He is screaming and kicking, and hitting?! My shock is squelched by the need to defend my shins, and out of the corner of my eye, I see his instructor calmly watching us. I am sure he is wondering what wise course of action I am going to take to calm down my son. However, I am wisdomless, but I am stubborn. I grab his boots, snap them into his skis, pick him up, still screaming, by the way, and carry him to the magic carpet. Adam follows us, probably wondering if he gets paid enough for this job. I am wondering what it is inside me that doesn't allow me to let my son sit on the sidelines, which is what he would love to do.
As Ocean begins to settle on the magic carpet, I look over to see Adam come up behind us. Without a word, he steps up behind Ocean, places his skis on either side of Ocean's skis, bends over and wraps his arms around Ocean. Ocean looks up, his face covered in post-tantrum, shall we say, nasal residue, a turn-off even to his mother. Adam doesn't even appear to notice, I hear him whisper, "it's ok, Ocean."
As they glide off the carpet, I immediately step forward inquiring what he is going to do next. He doesn't answer me, he turns around backwards, once again placing Ocean between his legs, bends over so that he is eye level with Ocean, and whispers, "look at my eyes, Ocean." I can see the fear in Ocean's eyes as he grasps Adam's arms. And, I gaze in amazement as Ocean's body relaxes, and he never takes his eyes from Adam's until they are safely at the bottom.
I catch Adam's eye, and nod towards the lodge. Clearly, he is fully capable and trustworthy. In such a short time, he has found a way to communicate with a little boy who cannot form words.
This last week, I watched from the lodge window, as Ocean held onto Adam's pole and skied down the hill. I watched him give Adam a high-five at the bottom, and slide his way back over to ride again.
I smiled.
This is when things get a little better.
