Heights

Heights terrify me.

Just the vision of someone standing on the balcony of a high rise will make my knees go numb.

One of our family’s favorite vacations to take is our annual ski trip.  I am a skier that adores the gentleness of a green, can endure the challenge of a blue, but typically aim to stay away from double black diamonds. Like always.

When we had just barely been a blended family for a few months, we headed to the mountains together with some friends.  After a few days of teaching two of our boys to ski and reminding the third, we were feeling good about ourselves.  “Look at us, what an athletic family.”   Pride always before the fall.

(The photo my friend texted to me on our drive to the ski resort, she was in the car behind us as we were exiting the Eisenhower Tunnel. She knows me well.)

My husband who is a natural at everything, had made several runs from the extreme tip of the mountain on his own.  He kept commenting on how beautiful it was up there, and suggested our entire group of eleven head up the lift, to the highest point of the mountain range.  Never mind the fact we had five kids with us who had only been skiing for two days.  In their life.  When I mentioned this, it was answered with, “There is a green all the way down, it doubles as the road in the summer months.”

Upward our optimistic gang went.  Not fully understanding that there were zero signs pointing out the easiest way down from this height.  People who ski in the clouds don’t look for the path of least resistance.

It started on the ski lift headed up the mountain, I could feel the wave of fear headed for me.  I shared this with my husband, however, I don’t think he fully understood the monster that was about to take over his wife’s body.  A common newlywed mistake.  Upon exiting the ski lift, I’m fairly certain we could see Mexico from that height. Terror took over my entire body, common sense completely left my brain, and everything I had ever learned about anything went fuzzy.  I knew with certainty that one of us was going to fall off this mountain, it was up to me to keep that from happening.  Panicked, I started shouting instructions, “Amy, you help the older kids!  Mason, watch out for your brothers!  Kyle, take care of the Littles!  Chad, do NOT leave my side!  No one fall off the mountain!”  I’ve been accused of sometimes being a little spicy, but there was zero sass in my instructions.  It was pure survival mode.

Back home, when the kids were in kindergarten, there is a rule for walking down the hallway in a line. The cuties are to keep their hands behind their back, holding their “leopard tail”. That’s what my friend Amy says we looked like skiing down the “green”, dodging the moguls and double blacks.  A kindergarten class getting off the ski lift with their psychotic teacher screaming, “Do not fall off the mountain!”  Every time Amy looked back to check on me with her saucer-sized, blue eyes, she was expressing genuine concern for my fear.  Only behind that, I could see the laughter that was building, waiting to happen once I was in a place to join her.

My husband is an extremely patient man, but somewhere on our slow descent, the well of patience went temporarily dry.  Poor fella, he kept wondering where his cool wife went and I was like, “Look dude, she’s gone, but Crazy-Eyed McPhearson is here to make sure no one plummets to the ground, got it?  Now, hold my leopard tail and SLOW DOWN.  Everyone put your skis in a pizza wedge!”

He claims it took us three hours to get the mountain, which is a total exaggeration.  It took us two and a half.  When we got to the point that the trees were blocking the view of Texas, my knees thawed and I skied normally.  My fear was gone because the view was different.  Sometimes we need to change our scenery to dilute our fear.

When we shift our surroundings a bit we can then realize that fear is such a liar.

Or as the Hubs would say, “Get out of your own way and POINT YOUR SKIES DOWNHILL!”

By the time we got to the bottom, our group had mostly separated, Hubs and I were mad at each other, Amy and I were crying with uncontrollable laughter, and we all suffered from PTSD. I faced the fear and skied through it.  Frozen.  Slow.  But still moving.

 Our trips to the mountains have since been gloriously perfect, even with the sore muscles. The boys race each other down, with their Sherpa app on.  I ski behind them, aiming to keep them in sight.  I push past my fear of heights and speed simply because I want to be with them.  I want to have fun experiences with them.   Most of the time this means I must ski faster than I wish but, it is worth it.  These memories are some of my favorites.

One of the greatest inventions is the ski mask.  Not to just keep heat in, but to keep others from hearing the language coming out of my mouth as I “self talk” my way down the slope.  Without the ski mask on, my fellow skiers would suspect that I had Tourettes syndrome.  And they would be right.  Altitude touretts.  It’s a real thing for me.  Only oxygen at the base of the mountain will cure it.   As my friend Bambi says, “Sometimes cussing is effective”.  I have to agree.  I ski better when I can safely express my fear and frustrations in a self-environment.

Those little darlings of mine are always waiting for me at the bottom, a sight that always makes me smile beneath my ski mask. They never need to know what has been said underneath it, they only need to know their Momma will do whatever it takes to spend time with them.

Even through moments of panic, altitude tourettes, exhaustion, and sore muscles.