nemito

Right, so you know you're through and through Texan when you can spend four nights in snowy Massachusetts, skiing, sledding... then come home and a couple days later still go absolutely wild when it snows.  

Snooooow, y'all!!  Like the kind they have to PLOW.  Such a phenomena!  

Just in case Nemo was going to be a total fluke and mysteriously vaporize before I woke up this morning, I took a few pictures last night:

Sean was stranded in Atlanta, otherwise I'd have abandoned my post as parent and run out for more pictures.

Astoundingly, the snow continued to fall over night.  I doubt we ever had blizzard conditions here-- if we did, it had to have been extremely brief.  To my knowledge the winds never got out of the 20's mph, and our total accumulation was about 12".  But I'm pretty sure that's more snow than I've seen fall in Texas over 30 years combined.  So it's still very, very exciting and rather blizzardish in my Texan book.

This morning, out our bedroom window, looking down on the Anastasopoulos' garage and across the alley:

Out in front, from the window and then on foot:

Powder! She didn't sink into the stuff in Massachusetts,
so when she first walked in this, it frightened her and she called for help.  :)

looking towards 21 Ave.

walking towards Ditmars Blvd.

the "No Dumping" alley

already sludgy at Ditmars 

Hellgate Bridge in the distance

looking back up 28th St.

For all the snowy fun he facilitated last weekend, Sean failed on one major count:

Josephine did not build a snowman in Massachusetts.  

"WHAAAT??" You say.  "Boooo!!!  Hissssss!!"

I know.  What kind of father doesn't help his wee little girl make a snowman?!

In Sean's defense:  it's a cold job.  And when he helped out with one in Bedford over Christmas, he was sore for days-- his snowman-building muscles must have atrophied over his lifetime of never building one.  Plus, I technically never warned him prior to marriage that snowmen would fall under his parental responsibilities, so he's a little annoyed that I'm so disengaged with this.  (But I just don't find the frostbite worthwhile.  It's a super cute idea-- just too cold in practice.  Falls in the same category as cooking:  way too much work for something that disappears so unrewardingly fast.)

Anyway, the snowman failure was a significant talking point for Josephine as we drove home from Massachusetts.  Sean kept redirecting her towards how very busy they were with sledding and snowballs and cooking snake pies (yeah, me too-- cooking what??) but she was rather focused about how she never got to build a snowman.

So naturally, the minute she heard there was snow outside, this was her GOAL.
A snowman.
With Sean oh-so-conveniently stuck in Atlanta, I had no one to outsource the activity to and was very skittish about my predicament.  My fingers were wanting to A) stay warm or B) risk frostbite on a camera that produces rewardingly undisappearing results.  Not to mention-- where on Earth were we going to put a snowman, and how were we going to make one in the less than twenty minutes we had outside before Clement needed to start his nap?

Poor thing was soooo determined.  As soon as we were out the door, she immediately picked up a chunk of snow and started trying to pat snow onto it to make it grow-- just as she'd witnessed my parents and Sean doing in Bedford.  She knew EXACTLY how to do it, but this was the wrong kind of snow, so it wasn't sticking.  All of her pats of snow kept crumbling off.  I tried telling her, but she thinks I'm just a killjoy in general, so she just valiantly ignored the facts and kept trying.  Eventually I took a small video of the pats (it lasts an iota of the time she spent trying).

All I can say is THANK GOODNESS she found a chunk of snow that had melted together enough to stick, and thank goodness we found another chunk, plus one more.  I encouraged her to stack them.  She did.  I celebrated and told her she had made a snowman-- goooood jooooobbb!  Take a picture with him!!!  Yay!
And, thank goodness, she was convinced.  whew.

Josephine and her Astorian snowman

home

icicles!  this was new for her. 
and not so old for me.

Here in Astoria, Nemo was a fitting name for this snowstorm--- such a cute little thing!  I'm hopeful we can have one more "storm" like this before having to head back to Texas.
Meanwhile, I'll be sure Josephine remembers which wonderful parent helped her fulfill her snowman dream!!  ;)

Charlemont, MA

Last Thursday, with our weekend plans postponed and about 5,000 loads of dirty laundry spilling out of our closet, we began entertaining the notion of taking one final weekend trip away.  Sean had previously mentioned wanting to see the Berkshires.  And another week of attempting routine, "perfect" diet, regular bedtimes, white noise, et al, had led to still NO improvement in Clement's sleep habits, and I was a zombie.  I decided A) there was no point in being a zombie in the same place I'm always a zombie-- might as well be miserable somewhere new.  And B) if Clement DID ever start sleeping well, I would probably NOT be willing to go anywhere over a weekend and risk regression... so in hopes that this milestone is in our near future, taking a trip sooner rather than later was a good idea.

Upon perusing AirBnB options with a washer and dryer in the Berkshires, available the next day, which met our sleeping requirements and fell within our price and travel limits-- we came up with a grand total of one condo.  It happened to be within skiing distance from a chair lift... which made it even more intriguing, as it revived my far-fetched hope that living in NY would give me a chance to try snow skiing for the first time. 

So we booked three nights and went.  And stayed a fourth.  It was WONDERFUL.  The scenery alone was a bit astonishing.  I can't remember ever staying somewhere so white.  There were small snow drifts piled up along the roads and chunks of ice in the river, which in places, was partially frozen over.  Wherever the road cut through a hill, frozen waterfalls hung off the rock walls.  The temperature never got above 25 degrees.  Buildings and homes were weathered and reminded me of quaint winter scenes on jigsaw puzzles I pieced together growing up.

Life seemed slow, old, quiet, unfamiliar.

Charlemont, MA

Equally unfamiliar (though with a space age twist) was the world of skiing.

We arrived after dark the first night, and as we rounded the final bend, we were greeted by the mountain with all the ski runs lit up for night skiing.  Not unlike this image that I found by googling "night skiing" (failed to get one of my own).  The back of our condo was all glass door and windows, facing the resort.  Between the glowing white courses, the soft motors of the snow machines and chair lifts, the helmeted figures zipping around silently -- I felt like we'd been transported into an observation lab on a totally different planet.  Eventually, the skiers were replaced by these beasts crawling up and down the slopes grooming the snow.  All of it was kind of spooky and awe-inspiring.  An excellent place to be sleep-deprived, do some laundry, and as I cautiously hoped, restore my dad's old ski coat to its intended purpose.

the lane going up to the condos

Ours was the second from the right.  That's the white Jeep we rented.

Best to start small, though.  Snowballs.  Saturday morning, as I embarked on the laundry project of the century, Sean and Josephine went outside to play.  They found a red snowball maker across the parking lot, and as far as Josephine was concerned, this alone made the whole trip worthwhile.  It was hard to tear her away and get her to do anything else.

With ample reassurances that more snowballs would be made later, we set off to explore Berkshire East and get a sense for what we might be able to do there.  It was wonderful that the resort was so convenient.  And fascinating.  You have no idea how hypnotic a chair lift is when you're crashed on the couch, staring out the sliding doors.  I could manage a conversation but could absolutely NOT avert my gaze from chair after chair after chair going up and up and up and up... you get it.

It turned out Josephine was a couple inches shy of Berkshire East's height requirement for tubing.  So while we had a plan for me learning to ski the next day, we needed to find SOMETHING with which to take advantage of the sledding hill right next to the condos.  First attempt was with a kitchen pan.

It was definitely more Josephine's size than Sean's, but that didn't stop him.

 Next order of business:  Defrost.

Mr. Rogers went to a ballet studio.  Perfect.

Clement's extreme winter sport.

We also drove through nearby Shelburne Falls that day, got some groceries, and ate dinner in Greenfield.

Sean found groceries at this market on the corner of Clement and 

State Streets which he used to make THE BEST hamburger 

I've had-- possibly EVER-- on Sunday night.

Saturday evening consisted of a fire in the fireplace, more laundry, more alien-ski-planet observing, and more chair-lift-hypnotizing.  We made plans on how to execute the following day.  My nervousness about learning to ski alone (especially at this non-touristy place that did not have ANY newbies in sight older than 2) didn't hold a candle to a lifetime of curiosity and desire to try it out.  Additionally, the situation was undeniably enabling.  The bunny hill was mere yards from our back door; I wouldn't have been able to pull off a lesson and practices if I weren't able to just walk back to the condo and feed Clement as needed.  Sean had tried snow skiing when he was 12, so he was game for holding down the fort with Josephine and Clement and was strongly encouraging me to do it.  And when I stopped to consider how rare it is to get to try something so entirely new, I knew it was simply impossible to pass up.  I decided I'd rather ski alone than tempt another 32 years to pass me by without affording another opportunity!

Sunday morning was show time.  I got Clement fed and situated, left Sean cooking bacon for Josephine, and had plenty of time to head over to the lodge, rent equipment, and sit petrified watching black diamond runs and a slalom race.  It took twenty minutes before I decided I couldn't hurt myself or anything/one else if I put on the skis just to see what it felt like.  

I'd signed up for the beginner group class, but ended up with a personal instructor (...ummmm, because I was RIGHT-- I was the only adult beginner).  He was an older man named Roland.  The situation was fabulous because A) I was spared the guilt of clumsily injuring a lot of two year olds, and B) I was able to progress more quickly with the personalized attention.  Roland himself was very kind; he even went over the hour of allotted time and took me out to a small chair lift I didn't know about.  I was so grateful that he showed me how to ride the lift and led the way down two small green courses.  It was excellent practice and a lot more fun than the bunny hill-- but I never would have attempted it on my own!  I would have assumed I couldn't do the green courses.  Even the chair lift was intimidating-- the wooden benches were small and shallow, and I had no idea about the bar we were supposed to pull down in front of us, or how to get off, etc.  But with someone there helping me along, I absolutely loved it!  

During my interlude back home, Sean and Josephine co-opted some unattended sleds they found at the base of the hill and this is when their real fun began.  Josephine absolutely LOVED sledding, and every free moment they had was spent on this activity.  At one point they tried a neighbor's hard plastic sled, and eventually we found two hard plastic ones in the closet outside our condo-- but those were too fast and wouldn't slow down before careening into the trees or rocky drive.  (In fact, when I tried the plastic "turbine" one, I stuck out my heels to slow myself down, they dug in too deeply, causing me to flip over face first, skinning the palms of my hands on the icy snow.  Such grace.  Every cartoon strip of Calvin and Hobbes on their catastrophic sledding expeditions flashed through my mind...)

There are three little video clips embedded in the captions below to bring their sledding more to life.

Josephine's enjoyment is evident in this clip. 

Sean wasn't always so helpful with getting the sleds back up...  see here.

From the top of the hill.  Sean took this video of her going down.

We were all wonderfully tired Sunday night and decided to extend the fun another day.  Sean was determined that I should get more ski practice, and since I woke up not overly sore on Monday, I decided the rental fee wouldn't go to waste.  To start, I showed off my "skills" to my little family on the bunny hill that morning, and then with an hour to spare before needing to be back to feed Clement, Sean and I agreed that this would be the best opportunity for me to attempt some more green courses-- namely, the longer ones that start at the top of the mountain (BIG chair lift!) and slowly wind down the back and around to the front of the lodge.

me on the bunny hill and the one person impressed with me

I admit I was BEYOND nervous at going to the top of a mountain and skiing down the back of it alone with all of three cumulative hours of skiing under my belt.  But I had enjoyed the green slopes Roland took me on the day before, and I loathed the idea that fear of the unknown might prevent me from getting to experience something potentially wonderful.  So I went to the lodge, drank a little water, and bought some of those hand warmer pouches and a yellow neck wrap in case it was colder up top. (My ski attire consisted of a hat, spandex Isotoner gloves, long johns, and Sean's torn windpants.  I did have a warm coat!)  I asked a few people some questions, pocketed the most graphically pathetic "map" you've ever seen, gulped down a huge wad of nerves, adjusted my game face, and got on the big chair lift.

And I'm happy to say, IT WAS SOOOOO AWESOME!!!!

The chair lift, that is.

Here's the thing I didn't know.  The longer green courses seem to differ from the simple, short ones I was on in that they alternate between steep-ish slopes and flatter runs... as though they are designed for a beginner to start going quite fast -- but then get slowed down a bit -- then go fast -- then slow down.  So theoretically, the beginner skier would never get out of control.
Theoretically.
Someone who has been skiing three hours, however, only needs about twelve inches of steep slope in order to feel completely out of control... the fact that it might calm down a bit every 20-30 yards is not adequate.  My skiing ability was staunchly unconvinced by the fact that if we mathematically averaged out the inclines, it would be doable.
"No."
But eventually one has to face this kind of course-- conquer the spook factor of the steep incline!
"No." 
This is the best time, though!  The course isn't crowded!
"NO."  
As the internal debate raged on, the steep inclines stood by silently, still managing to be far more persuasive.

Soooo, what to do?  Naturally, it wasn't until I had skied well away from the chair lift before I had started noticing I was in waaaay over my head.  No cell phone coverage, on a Monday when the resort is quiet, on the back side of the mountain, two small children dependent on me for care, and the stark awareness that a broken hip is not worth any amount of adventure... these things cornered me into conservatism.  I was attempting the long green courses because I didn't want to miss something wonderful, not because I wanted to win some nonexistent prize for conquering a personal challenge at all costs.
And so, for a while, I tried skiing the doable parts and carrying my equipment down the steeper inclines.  This was taking FOREVER, though, and I was already 20 minutes past the time Sean and I had agreed I would be back.  With no idea how far I was from the bottom, I decided I was safest heading back up to the top; I had noticed rescue workers up there during my decidedly ungraceful dismount from the chairlift.  Perhaps they would let me ride the lift back down.

That's how the ski patrol found me.  Trudging UP the icy edges of the slope, skis and poles in hand, feet locked into boots that have, frankly, NO traction.  (Would it hurt anyone to design ski boots perhaps a liiiittle more multi-purposely?  Must we be all high and mighty and assume no one would ever need to WALK in them??)  The patrol people informed me that down was going to be faster.  So I turned around.  They kindly carried my skis to the next chair lift, saying the second half of the run was easier.  I hiked that far, got my skis, confirmed this interpretation of the second half with another employee, was told it was "the easiest course on the mountain," and then I tried again.

I hope I get points for determination.

Technically, the second half was easier.  I can see that.  The steep parts were a tad further apart.  It was still NOT easy enough-- especially in light of my new levels of exhaustion and adrenaline-shot nerves.  And if we're going to be technical, then Mr. Employee was technically quite wrong, as the two smaller green courses on the mountain were technically most definitely easier.
I was in the process of removing my skis for the second time on that stretch, once again too far down to return back to the chair lift, when fortunately, one of the patrol skiers arrived on a snowmobile, having been kind enough to come back up and check on me.  A hallelujah choir did sing.  I gladly accepted the ride back down, and my relief grew even stronger as we rode along and I saw how the course just grew increasingly challenging the further you went.  It'd have taken me at least another hour (or two) to make it back to the lodge, if I hadn't first crumpled in a mass of frustration and lactic acid.

Of course, at a ski resort where everyone has been doing this their entire lives, it's a total walk of shame to show up on a snowmobile and not have at least one openly fractured bone.  To hop off, fully able-bodied, offer a heartfelt "Thank you!!" and walk away carrying my skis... yeeeeaah.  Super cool.  I avoided all eye contact and bee-lined for the condo... Never have I been more relieved to be home!
Naively, I expected a modicum of concern and compassion upon arriving and announcing that I was now qualified to write rave reviews of the resort's instructors AND rescue team.
But no.
Sean just laughed and laughed and laughed.
Clement was hungry and cared only about eating.
And Josephine just kept asking where I got my yellow neck wrap.

I stuck to the bunny hill after that.

It was still a worthwhile day-- I did love that big chair lift.  I got to see the other side of the mountain-- and I dare say, having to survive the stretches of skiing I did do taught me a thing or two about my form and technique (such as, what I know about form and technique is dramatically inadequate), but I did get better.  Also got to ride a snowmobile!  Shamefully or not!
I'd happily [watch 300 youtube instruction videos and then] go back any day.

And of course-- most importantly-- the laundry is DONE.

Attempt #1

Gam requested a pose of Clement similar to the one of Josephine in her travel crib with the rabbit hat on, which you can see in this post from California.  I attempted it for the first time last week, and got a couple shots before having to move on.

Whew.  Time for a new pose.

Much better.  

Also, you will notice that in addition to his "oh, Mom, you're so funny" smile...

...his normal "I love you, but you're not being hilarious right now" grin...

...his lip sucking face...

...and his most favorite activity of sticking out his tongue...

...Clement has a new smirk. 

"Who put these TEETH in here?!"

It's a sweet little pucker.  Gets him lots of kisses.

Ooop.  Okay.  Nap time.

I've seen this look before...

Clement did this "peering over the obstacle" pose mid-January.  I've been meaning to post it and compare it to Josephine in the toy box...

(Actually, I've been meaning to find my external hard drive, on which I am sure I have other pictures from her sitting in the box-- one of which has more of her face exposed.  I think it'd have been a better comparison.  Nervously, however, I can't find the hard drive.  Hoping I inadvertently left it in Austin last summer...)