Stage Parent

 

Yesterday afternoon I took Owen ice skating for the first time, to give him a chance to use the ice skates we bought him for christmas. It was a very surprising experience for me - usually I think my expectations are pretty in line with what is actually going to happen when it comes to Owen. For instance, when we go to the mall, I anticipate an hour of frustrated mom chasing Owen around, paying for broken merchandise, and dealing with eardrum shattering tantrums. I'm a realist. However, for some reason this generally accurate sense of life with a toddler did not extend to ice skating. For some reason, in my head, I had this idea that we were going to go to the ice skating rink, I would spend 20 minutes teaching Owen how to ice skate, and then he and I sould spend the afternoon gliding around the rink hand in hand.

So, that didn't really happen. Owen lasted approximately 4 1/2 minutes on the ice, 2 of which he spent crying to Daddy on the sidlines to let him get off. Turns out, it takes a little more than 10 minutes and a mother's love of ice skating to get a not-quite-two year old whipping around the rink. After I gave up in defeat, and we were walking back to the car, Andy volunteered that he thought it went well. After all, Owen let me put the ice skates on him without protest, enjoyed walking around the rubber mat area with them on, wore his helmet without protest and enjoyed the cup of hot chocolate he got. My first reaction was "Went well? It was a disaster!" My visions of having the next Brian Orser (I mean, Wayne Gretzky!) on my hands had been dashed. It was then that I got an inkling that perhaps my expectations were a tad out of line.

Anyway, the good news is, Owen has been talking nonstop about ice skating since we got home, and has spent the last 2 1/2 hours begging me to take him this morning. So all is not lost! Hell be Elvis Stoijko (I mean Patrick Roy! really!) before we know it!