The week after Christmas was devoted to skiing. We went to the same ski area as usual, but stayed in a different pension, more centrally located. Beta timed us the first night when we walked to the Kirchenwirt, the inn across the street from the church, where we usually eat. It took us 15 seconds to get there.
Not only that: although we took the ski bus to the lifts, we were able to ski right up to our pension on our way back. I have dreamed of doing that ever since reading about Hemingway doing that on his stays in Tyrol or somewhere. So basically, I had a Hemingway ski trip this winter, if Hemingway had spent his time skiing behind an 8-year old girl. And had drunk less. Quite a bit less, in fact, because he was afraid of falling down too much if he got drunk while skiing.
The weather was perfect. Lots of good, powdery snow. Nice and cold. Trees all thickly flocked in the white. Didn't even fall down the first day. Not until we were on our way home, anyhow. By then I was tired. I didn't feel tired, but I could tell I was because I began to crash a lot.
Even though we spent some time in the lodge, eating and stuff.
The second day it was foggy so we went swimming at a water-slide place. Aquapulco, it was called, but Gamma called it Apocapulco. That's my girl.
If you're new here, Gamma is the 8-year old.
Happy New Year, by the way.
Evenings we spent fighting over the remote control device and jockeying for position on the couch.
When Beta had the remote, we watched MTV, at least part of the time. I was a bit worried when Rammstein came on, because it was visually impressive and included a monk-type fellow stabbing someone to death, and several shirtless flagellants (as opposed to flagellates which are something biological) scourging themselves vigorously and in time with the music.
"Papa," Gamma said once the video had finished, "can you get me a copy of this?"
The third day of skiing was the coldest, so we went into the lodge earlier in the day, to make sure we got a table because it's no fun to lurk around in the lodge looking for a corner to rest in.
We had a good family ski trip. We fought and bickered quite a bit, because we have been doing that this holiday season, but the external conditions couldn't have been better, is what I'm saying. The landscape was quite marvelous. My wife led us around the slopes with calm expertise, and the snow was good with very little ice. I got in a few nice chats with Beta on the ski lifts. We had a good time. But it's nice to be back.
I just noticed the article, just skimmed it; I was on the crapper and there's only so much newspaper you can handle in 15 minutes, after the juicy financial scandals and the drug scandals on the sports pages, how much else can you read? I got the headline - Premature Births something something, and the picture - someone inside an incubator - with a descriptive caption, and something about trends and whatever. My wife mentioned later she had read the article, she reads every one that crosses her path, because she is interested and not as haughty and let's be honest, vain as I am, not as convinced that she knows all about it because we do know something about it, having had two ourselves. Rather, she had them, of course, I was in the vicinity. She said the article was full of scary statements about what can go wrong when you are born early, and it is a long list indeed. The first guy I met in Vienna, showed me around town, he was blind, too much oxygen in the incubator. When our first one was born too early, on my first visit to her, the doctor told me, 90% chance she will have a normal brain.
So there is a great deal to worry about. A long, long list.
Journalists love that aspect. Scaring people is a big industry now. So with that disclaimer, that caveat, whatever, let me tell you this: it is theoretically possible for things to go well. There is a good chance they will, and that chance gets better with time, as technology and medical practices improve.
I would like to list for you the things that I know from experience can go right, but I have foresworn bragging about my children, and if I told you about them in any detail it would sound like bragging. So it's all a big secret. All I can say is, things can go very well. You can have a fright like this, seeing a child born at 1272 grams and shrink down to 1000 before starting to gain weight, that forms your expectations to a point where seeing your child sit up on her own, let alone walk, makes every day feel like Thanksgiving Day and then the child can develop into someone so very exceptional and excellent that you don't know where to start thanking whom. Things, I can't tell you exactly what, can be so amazing; you can have such unexpected adventures, which remain secret.
And despite all that, you can also forget it for an instant, get mad, get impatient, whatever. We are only human. But you can also remember. You can be sitting there at a table in a slow Asian restaurant with a sore back, tired and hungry, and be overwhelmed by your child's beauty and perfection, by the way her muscles move beneath her skin and the way her dark hair falls, the color of her eyes and shape of her nose, the way she makes conversation and the fact that she can sit up straight and walk under her own steam, not to mention all the excellence I can't tell you about. Things can go very well, pray they always do.