Snow for Brains

Balancing fun and recklessness

I live half way up a mountain. Halfway up, rather than down, you'll note. In any case, half way up is not a bad place to be. As the Grand Old Duke of York would say, it's neither up nor down.

You're half way to the flat bit where the shops are, so you don't have to wheeze your way back to the summit again every time your Hob Nobs run out. And you're also half way to the pointy, mountain-shaped bit.

All of which brings me rather shambolically to the subject of our sledging expedition.

It being winter, and the days crisp and cold, we decided to take our six-year-old on his first sledging trip.

So far, so simple, right?

Wrong.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that the occasion of propelling one's progeny down mountains at speed, may give rise to a divergence of opinion between progeny's parents upon the most suitable method employed. To wit, a situation.

Anything involving the thorny subject of childcare has the potential for placing you at loggerheads with your partner. Add real, white-knuckled danger into the mix, and you can find yourselves struggling to grasp that elusive consensus. Reaching out, building bridges, seeking common ground...all the usual platitudes swiftly become redundant. We are on thin ice, and we know it. Right now, all I really need to communicate is exactly what a total idiot my husband actually is.

Let me paint the picture.

Having safely traversed the snow-churned roads, we arrive at the summit, cosy-coated and big-booted. Our newly purchased sledge (with brakes!) glitters under a bright sun.

Now, for my money, a practice run is desirable. A sedate maiden voyage to bolster his confidence. And mine.

I peer down the sheer ice sheet and feel slightly nauseous. He's only six. Surely a gentle introduction to sledgology is the sensible way forward? From a safer place, halfway down the mountain?

The idiot My husband views things differently. He assures me everything is safe. It is a regulated, well-maintained, sledging piste. Not a rural field littered with submerged, rusting agricultural implements. He gestures at the red and black suited marshals strutting about with their walkie-talkies and mirror shades.

Am I being over-protective? Is Mummy stifling her little Prince, again?

With heavy heart I watch other kids fly past on the pack ice. Shrieking with glee, a blur of streaming hair and rosy cheeks. Unencumbered by maternal angst. Their parents sit on the terrace outside the café, smoking and drinking bottled beer... clearly not giving a monkey's.

Blimey, that is fast.

I watch in mute horror as a child flies into the air, disappearing in a flurry of snow, legs and arms.

Err.

I look towards the marshals, willing them to leap into action.

But they are unconcerned. No one's calling for a medevac helicopter. It's fine, really. The kid is fine. There he is, walking back up the slope for another bash.

And just beyond him, high up above, I see my son - about to launch from the very top. My husband is standing beside him with a fixed grin. He pushes our precious cargo firmly off.

Oh-my-God.

As I run, I watch his sledge crest a pronounced rise. They part company in mid air and crash sickeningly down to earth. I stop and stare.

He slowly sits up. I know that face. He is in shock.

My husband is closest to him. But he doesn't rush to his aid. No. He's waving. His grin is fixed even more determinedly. He's waving him back to the top.

For another go...

I run towards them, my lungs protesting.

They do it again. This time he flips over and eats ice. He is looking decidedly wobbly.

I finally arrive, breathless. I manage to convey that we will descend to lower, safer ground for our 'practice runs,' that we are not in need of 'momentum' to get us going. All this I manage with just a look. Words can wait.

And from halfway up or down the mountain, depending on your viewpoint, we manage a smooth, safe and controlled slide to the bottom...brakes fully applied and Mummy in charge.

And do you know what he says?

'It's more fun with Dad.'