We decided to ask Sweet Potato to hold Buckaroo and be my ski spotter this evening because the water was perfect and there was not one boat on the lake. We were nervous about the sitter/spotter combination because, while she loves her little bro, Sweet Potato has limited (five minutes) patience for him most days. She's also easily distracted. It was quiet, though, so we gave it a go. It went swimmingly, or skiingly, rather.
Here I am waiting as long as I can to dunk myself in the water. It is chilly these days.
Here's my pigeon-toed, chicken-legged position. When I climbed back in the boat Sweet Potato said, "Mom, you looked like Jesus in elf shoes." At least she's imaginative.
My post-ski victory cheer. I got out of the water on my first try, and I skied one and a half times around the lake until my back started shouting, "Who do you think you are, some young whippersnapper?" and I let go of the rope. Before that, though, I was even skiing on the edge of the wake, but I was not ready to venture into open water.
Apparently I look like a 45-year-old man when blissed out. I never knew this about myself.
In other news: I had a dream about Obo last night. He came back to live with us, just showed up and demanded that we re-register him at the high school. He wouldn't talk about why he changed his mind. He was wearing his brown hoodie with the hood around his face, just like the day we dragged him up Mt. Watatic, and he pouted and walked 300 feet behind us in his clompy untied shoes. I was so relieved to have him home that I didn't even want to make him talk about it. I was telling R, "Just let him go to school, and he'll talk when he's ready," as I woke up. It was one of those dreams that puts a mama in a funk. Even a step-mama.
Also, I attended my first book club meeting tonight, and we discussed The Gathering by Anne Enright. Fortunately, they didn't kick me out for failing to finish the book. My friend Red Mama (she's a Republican, gasp!) agreed that we didn't like the main character, so it makes it difficult to listen to her story.
The really good news is that the book clubbers like to snack while discussing books. Food is always a bonus.
Oh, and I learned something tonight: That Christmas game where everyone brings a gift, takes a number, and steals from each other-- out here it's called Yankee Swap. What are the Yankees trying to say about themselves? I have a feeling that eventually it will not be politically correct to call it the Yankee Swap, and they'll start calling it the Gracious Grinch like in California.
I call it the Greedy Grinch-- I mean, come on. Stealing gifts at Christmas, and from your drunken, dysfunctional family members? Who thought of this game? Satan in elf shoes, that's who.