Transparent Tuesdays

Issue 252

You guys,

Ice skating seemed like a great idea—a fun family outing. I imagined my toddlers in their puffy winter jackets and mittens and their little brown rental skates, waddling and sliding across the ice.

It was not until the ice skates were on my own feet, and we had not even moved past the benches outside of the rink, when one kid was screaming because I wouldn’t pick him up—because I thought my ankles might break if I did—and the other kid was whimpering because she’d never worn ice skates before, that I realized I was in trouble.

We were told they had sleds for beginners. They were either red or blue and looked like massive plastic walkers without wheels. When we traded in our shoes for skates we asked about the sleds but they were all being used. So we trekked along the outside of the rink without anyone or anything to help us, and made our way to the entrance. The place was packed with people of all ages. We had to walk single file—like we were walking the plank with a sword pointed at our backs—as we held hands and slowly shuffled forward.

We finally reached the entrance but had no plan. Swarms of people were entering and exiting the rink and we were in the way. We stepped to the side and Sam looked at me. “Can you do this?” he asked. “No,” I said, suddenly imagining a new vision—one in which I fall on the ice, hit my head and get another concussion. “Not without a sled.”

I’ve only ice skated a handful of times in my life and not well. I’ve never rollerbladed. I grew up going to the roller rink for birthday parties on the weekends but my guess is that if I strapped on a pair of roller skates it would not be like riding a bike. It’s not because I’m 40—it’s because I’m fearful. Back-to-back concussions followed by a stress fracture in my neck have made me terrified to do anything that isn’t in a controlled environment. I will only push myself if a trainer tells me it’s safe, and even then I will question it.

Sam stayed with the kids and I slowly walked around the rink, focused on keeping my ankles straight as they kept caving inwards. A sled had been left at a different entrance. I grabbed it, thankful to hold onto something sturdy, and made my way back to my family. Sam had snagged a sled, too, so now we could each go on the ice with a kid. This was apparently good news, though I had hoped the whole way back that Sam would take turns with each kid while I sat safely on a bench with the other one. Sam put his sled on the ice first, and then George behind it.

It was my turn. Sam grabbed my sled as I lifted Layla over the lip of the entrance to place her as carefully as I could on the ice. As soon as Sam had hold of Layla’s shoulder I gripped either side of the sled and put all my weight onto it. I shuffled us inches away from the entrance, away from the traffic, my body hunched over top of Layla, unable to see her face. Skaters whizzed past me on either side. I swear one guy was going eighty miles per hour. There were other families, like us, utilizing sleds as their kids shuffled along, but also not like us, because they were actually moving. Sam was only three sleds-length in front of me but it was loud on the ice. Taylor’s Swift new song, thanK you aIMee, blared from surrounding speakers. Not my favorite song on the album but comforting nonetheless.

“How do I move?!” I screamed in his direction. I was laughing. I couldn’t stop laughing.

“Are you okay?” he screamed back.

“No!” I said.

“I can’t take care of all of you!”

I knew with certainty that this would be my only lap around the rink. This was all I could do. I managed to lift one foot a little off the ice and began to push us forward, my left hand on the sled, my right arm hooked underneath Layla’s armpit and my right hand resting on the front of the sled. I should have checked on Layla, made sure she was okay—her first experience ice skating—but I did not.

Sam paused ahead. We were still on the straightaway, had not yet reached the curve of the rink. We had only traveled about twenty feet. There was such a long way to go. For some reason we switched kids then. I did not want to switch but the decision had been made and when the sleds were touching I moved like a robot from one to the other.

George was a little taller than Layla and had a better grip of the sled so I didn’t need to hook my arm underneath of him. I looked down and saw his little feet sliding back and forth as his body pressed against the front of the bulking red plastic. I tried to bend down and look at his face. I could only see his profile. His eyes were alert and focused. As I was close to his ear I said, “Just try not to fall, bud.”

“What?” he yelled.

“Just try not to fall! I’m not sure I can help you if you do!”

He started screaming then. “No! I want Papa!”

Sam slid closer to us. “What happened?”

Parenting is often just me regretting the last thing I did or said. We switched kids again.

I was back with Layla as we neared our first lap and she said, “I want to go again!”

No. I can’t. I couldn’t. But then we passed the entrance for Lap 2. This would be it. Two laps was all I had in me. My arms bore down on the sled as I tried to put the least amount of weight on my feet. It felt like the insides of my ankles were touching the ice. I thought I’d tied the laces tight. I had not.

We were near the end of Lap 2 and I thought of the relief I’d feel as soon as I got off this slippery concussion trap. Layla had been crying halfway through the lap but the sight of the open entrance seemed to have the opposite effect on her that it had on me. She wanted to keep going. But there was no way I could do three laps.

After the third lap I pulled a limp screaming Layla off the ice. George ditched the sled and he and Sam went around again. When they got back it was Layla’s turn to go without a sled. I sat on the bench with each kid while they took turns—my vision finally realized.

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Until next week,

Charlie