Two pregnancies have evaporated all the muscle tone and physical stamina I ever had (ha!), just in time for the kind of passable confidence that ten years of free skiing can produce.

So I cheat, slopping down the hill in what the telemark-half of Justin’s ski patrol crew used to scoffingly call ‘alpinmark’, or skipping the dropped knee in the interest of walking without grunting for the next week.

One of the lockers in the patrol hut at Cypress had a snarky bumper sticker on it that read TELEMARKING: IF IT WERE EASY, IT’D BE CALLED SNOWBOARDING and of course, naturally, someone had scratched out the last word so it read IF IT WERE EASY, IT’D BE CALLED SCOTT MAGLIO but the point remained: this purist form of skiing is akin to splitting ten cords of firewood with a spoon versus electric baseboards.

On this mountain I am an Amish buggy. I need an orange triangle pinned to my jacket that stands for ‘recent pregnancy’, or a sandwich board that says KEEP TWO HUNDRED FEET BACK or HONK IF YOU LOVE TWINSKIN or I BRAKE TO BREASTFEED.

But what the heck. It’s near-miraculous to have this kind of snow before Christmas. And we happen to be here in our beloved Sugarloaf, Maine with Justin’s indispensable parents, who just so happen to not mind being spat up on by our offspring.

+++++

HOW TO KIDNAP COERCE INTRODUCE A TODDLER TO SKIING

In hotel room, ask child calmly if he would like to don snowsuit, ski boots and skis. When child definitively says “No” ask again, pretending you could not care less.

When child says “But all my trains are right here. Why would I want to go outside where it’s cold and where there are NO TRAINS?”, request the assistance of ten conveniently earplugged sumo wresters.

Apply said snowsuit.

Once outside, offer a trial run without skis.

 
Pursue runaway child.

 
In the absence of a burlap sack, use brute force.

 
Extract smiles for camera with rhino tranquilizer and smartie bribery.

When passing state trooper flags you down at the child’s screams of “Put me down! You’re not my daddy!” increase speed.

 
Despite the inclusion of Spongebob Squarepants in this milestone moment, squeal with delight as child’s first pair of skis touch snow for the first time.

Disregard child’s nonchalance.

 
Note wife making obnoxious ass of self as she yell-sings ‘Let’s Have A Race’ from Episode #47 of Thomas the Tank Engine while running backwards and flapping arms.

Ensure your helmet is properly secured.

In the case of bunnyhill pileup, use child as soft landing.

 
Marvel that he likes it — no — loves it.

 
Fall over with equal parts pride and jello-legs.

Repeat every snowday for the next TEN YEARS.

What was that I said years ago? Oh right, I remember now: Whenever we have a kid, I hope it's a goof.

Apparently, my wish has been granted.

Before drifting off to sleep the other night Justin blearily whispered to me, "You smell like sunscreen and toddler poop."

Should the scents of true romance, if truly potent, keep one's spouse awake at night? Mais, oui!

Evan ‘Mr. Miyagi’ Inglis has adopted the ‘wax on, wax off’ method of highchair self-defense, deflecting offending spoonfuls and washcloths alike.

A subtle but telling change has recently occurred: the discovery of cause and effect. He doesn’t say no, exactly – but he has no problem expressing it.

On the brink of his first birthday, the learning curve is boarded and ready for liftoff. Today he figured out how to play his new slide whistle, and didn’t let go of it for three hours. He’s doing his best to give a ‘kiss’, which is comprised of launching himself headlong towards the object of affection, mouth wide open, and pressing tongue against cheek. Sounds random, but it’s not: he then pulls away, looks at me and smiles. He knows.

See? I kiss you. mmmMMWAAH!

The other day while dressing him Justin said, “What stinks?” and went sniffing in search. And wonders! Turns out it was Evan’s feet. They smell. Like stinky feet. All three of us tumbled into giggles. Why is this funny? Why unexpected? Yet another one of the great mysteries of life.

Last night Justin was bugging me, saying I secretly wanted to watch Spike TV’s ‘Robocop’ movie marathon (a ruse he employs to reveal his own true desires – e.g., “You want a cookie, don’t you? Yes, you do…”).

No, I don’t, I replied. Do too, he said. Do not, I said. Do too plus one, he said. Do not plus infinity, I said. Do too plus infinity plus one, he said. Which then led to the classic quandry: can you add anything to infinity? The person who does it always says yes.

Until we must teach by example, we'll wrestle in the house, not finish our crusts, call a jigger a jigger, laugh when he farts and eat cheez whiz on white bread. Free license until he's old enough to say "But.. but.. but.. You Do It!"

Daddy is home. It might only be my imagination, but Evan is thrilled. He’s got the giggles. We’ve never heard him laugh like this before. He finds things spontaneously funny, whereas not long ago, we had to work for every chuckle. Now we can see that his ever-important sense of silliness is developing.

Hearing your kid belly laugh for the first time, you stop in your tracks. The sound of a soul, growing. A sound that deserves instantaneous world peace.

Even though I know we’ll someday take it for granted, I tell myself now I’ll never forget how amazing this is, this sound. He becomes his own person, right before our eyes.