Life is a Toboggan Ride

A phrase that has recently entered the Ainsworth Family vernacular, and most often repeated by my wife and I, is: "This is not my life!"

What we mean by this is that the life we are living is not the one we pictured at the beginning. It implies the belief that this is someone else's life, and it is being imposed on us. Too many people have the power to insert themselves into our story, rewriting portions if not overhauling the whole theme. And furthermore, it begs the question, "Who do we need to talk to to remedy the situation?"

A prime example of this is our standard "date night", chronicled in my last post, Mr. Monk Gets Interrupted.

The conclusion I've come to recently, though, is that this really is my life, and that rather than try to determine with whom I need to file a complaint, I need to embrace my life. Like George Bailey, I've discovered that it really is a wonderful life, even if it's not exactly the one I had mapped out for myself.

What occurred to me the other day is that this trip called life is not a cross-country trip in a car, nor even on a motorcycle. No, the modern day vehicles we drive are well designed and easy to control. They do break down sometimes, you may get temporarily lost, or even have an accident, but the vast majority of the time you can easily navigate from Point A to Point B on schedule and without mishap. For most people, Life isn't like that. For most people, Life is a toboggan ride.

If you've ever ridden a toboggan, especially with 4 or 5 other people, down an ungroomed, snow-covered hill, you have an idea of what I'm talking about. If you've ever been responsible for steering such a toboggan, then you know exactly what I mean.

These days, when driving a modern vehicle, you program your trip in your GPS, then follow the step-by-step instructions until you reach your destination. If you should happen to get off course, a pleasant voice immediately informs you of your error, and announces, "Recalculating route". Some of them even help you avoid construction zones and traffic delays. And if your vehicle is well maintained, you have brakes, signal lights, and steering to quickly, efficiently, and safely make the necessary corrections.

It's true that some people have the advantage of "voices" directing them through life, but these are often fickle, deceptive, and unreliable.

On the toboggan ride of life, you pretty well have just one shot at getting it right. Spending time planning your run is paramount, because once you start gaining momentum, course corrections are difficult and protracted, and slowing down or stopping may be impossible, depending on the steepness of the hill. Also, despite the best of planning, unseen obstacles and undulations in the snow may throw you off course, sending you in an unwanted direction.

For best results, you also need the cooperation of everyone riding with you, working together to steer and brake by leaning and using hands and feet. Your passengers need to be willing to hang on, too, even in the face of danger. Otherwise, you'll need to find a way to get stopped, regather everyone, and start again, perhaps attending to injuries in the process.

While it is certain that everyone will get to the end of their ride, very few actually wind up close to where they had originally planned. You might consider yourself a failure for having "missed it". You might even cry, "Foul!" because you didn't understand that so many outside forces would inevitably send you off course.

However, that's the nature of sledding. In spite of your careful planning, once you launch yourself from the top of the hill, it will be a constant battle to stay on course. You'll be tossed to the side. You may lose a passenger or two along the way, and you may crash. Hopefully you'll be able to avoid hitting any trees, bringing a premature end to your ride. If you get too far off course, you may need to stop, and take a long, arduous hike back to the right path before setting off again.

But if you understand all this before hand, and you're prepared for it, it's a blast! The wind and snow spray in your face is exhilarating! The speed of the ride, and being on the edge of losing control causes a rush of adrenaline, sharpening the senses and making you feel alive.

Also, the occasional "flat spot" or "dumping" gives you time to catch your breath, and reassess your situation, measuring how far you've come and how much is left to go. It gives you a chance, too, to look back at your trail and reminisce. Every "swoosh" in the track, every sitzmark, every footprint tells a part of the story, reminding you of your successes and your failures. The best parts being told and retold, again and again. The worst parts being left behind and forgotten.

And the greatest reward is sharing the journey with others, the people you love. Laughing together, crying together, facing fear together, loving together, and making common memories. These things are what make the ride enjoyable. And life is not a destination, but a journey.

This IS my life, and it's wonderful, George Bailey!

Mr. Monk Gets Interrupted

My wife and I (especially my wife) have become fans of the TV series, Monk, which is available on Netflix. The show chronicles the exploits of a gifted detective who also has OCD. My wife laughs about how she identifies too much with Mr. Monk's affliction. I think the show is therapy for her.

Watching Monk has become our default choice for date nights, sitting on our love seat with a bowl of popcorn and a glass of wine.

As romantic and enjoyable as this might sound, or should be, we hardly ever get to enjoy an episode without interruption, much to my vexation.

The usual culprit in the undermining of our date is our handicapped son, Ethan. Because he eats at a different time (later) than the rest of the family, we usually have to work around his special meal, often opting to feed him during an "intermission". But this is just the beginning.

Ethan's sensory issues make it hard for him to quietly listen to anything, especially the loud noises or suspenseful music that accompany many movies and TV shows. His response to it is to begin "bucking" in his chair, or vociferate in a crescendoing "Aahhhahhhahhaaahh!". We've learned that subtitles and more volume are no match for his complaints, and eventually we must press pause and give in to his demands.

Another ploy Ethan uses is to choose our date as the perfect time for vomiting or using the toilet, both of which, in addition to interrupting our date, also score a direct hit to my mojo.

Lest you think I bear ill will toward Ethan for this, I don't. I know he is more aware than we give him credit for (he laughs at times that are entirely too appropriate), and at times I think he does some of these things to get attention, but overall I know he is not to blame. I love my son, and I am often thankful that we have it as good as we do with him.

Besides, he is not the only date night interloper. My wife, God bless her, tries to accommodate my plans for romance by notifying people she communicates with that she is on a date with me. However, inevitably, someone will chat her, text her, or call her, or one of our other children will present themselves requiring immediate attention. And my wife, God bless her, will respond, because it's in her DNA to sacrifice herself as a servant to others. But I don't hold this against her, either, because it's who she is, and I love this about her. And I don't feel badly towards the people who need her, either. They love her, and I love them for doing so.

So we finish what we're watching with popcorn and wine long gone, fires of passion extinguished, and more often than not, with me falling asleep just before the case is solved (Leslie has to tell me whodunit). Then we trundle off to bed, turning down the thermostat, making coffee, flipping light switches and taking turns in the bathroom on our way. Talk about about the proverbial "wet blanket"!

I used to be resentful about this scenario, feeling like a playwright whose script is mangled by actors who liberally improvise their parts. If I'm honest, I still battle with feelings of disappointment when things don't go as I have hoped.

However, these recent realizations have helped me gain a new perspective on all of this:

1. The most important purpose to our dates is that we spend time together doing something we enjoy, and the stilted manner in which we're forced to spend this time doesn't need to lessen the enjoyment.
   
2. Though we once thought we didn't want any children, we changed our minds, and so have chosen this path of "family life".
   
3. I'm being selfish wanting to have such a wonderful person as my wife all to myself. What makes me think I'm worthy of such an honor?
   
4. If romance frequently takes one on the chin, love does not. I cannot be thankful enough for this.
   
5. Our children, though feigning embarrassment at our demonstrative (but not indecent) behavior, they actually love that we love each other. Consequently they willingly take care of Ethan for us while we go to the symphony, eat out or hole up in our bedroom for our date. I revel in this, even though I might still fall asleep before the criminal is brought to justice.

So, here's the thing: If the actors in my play tend to "wing it" rather than stick to my script, and if an occasional flubbed line causes a disruption to the flow, it's still our story. It's us! And I love us! And if night after night the audience (God's angels) applaud our performance of love, what's to be discouraged or disappointed about?

Can I get a "Bravo!"?

Duck, or Decoy?

There is nothing that brings out the little boy in me like a good, old-fashioned snowball fight. I just can't resist getting involved.

Fortunately for me, my children (boys and girls) have obliged me and joined in many a "fight", to the delight of all of us.

On rare occasions we have even managed to involve their mother, but usually only for brief moments, when she pulls a sudden and unexpected sneak attack, then retreats to the safety of our home to "make cocoa".

Our battles usually begin as an "every man for himself" shootout, then fall into natural teams trying to drive the enemy army from the land, but inevitably turn into "everybody against Dad". It's at this point I have to show what I'm made of, and take my licks. Because I cannot win. Not any more.

It used to be, even when there were greater numbers of them at home, they were small, had poor aim and limited range. Now, however, they are big (they will all eventually be taller than I), strong boys with deadly skills. Even the littlest one throws bullets. No, I will be crying for mercy in a short time, and they will love it.

My one triumph, however, is my signature move - the decoy. After all these years, it still works. As a matter of fact, I used it successfully again today. The concept is simple, but very effective. After a time of slinging snowballs one at a time, you hurriedly make two, without being seen. Then, after choosing your victim, lob one at him (or her).

(Okay, while you are picturing that snowball, suspended in mid-air, let me explain something. In our family it is a moral victory to catch a snowball thrown at you, and blast your enemy with his own artillery.)

Now, back to the arcing projectile, which your target will undoubtedly attempt to catch: Part two of the scheme is to drill your opponent with your second snowball while his eyes are diverted to the first. Surprise!

I think the thing I love the most about the decoy is that I learned it from my Dad. Growing up in Idaho and Utah, I saw the trick demonstrated countless times, with equal success.

Sometimes this ploy works even when it doesn't work. The most memorable decoy attempt in history is the time Charlotte tried it on Andrea. As prescribed, Charlotte lofted her first snowball high into the air, anticipating the raised eyes of her gullible quarry which would signal the time to strike with the "kill shot". But to Charlotte's dismay, Andrea was wise to her trick, ignored the decoy and waited for the second throw. What happened next has never before or since been duplicated in the annals of Ainsworth Family Snowtainment. Charlotte's first throw came down immaculately, scoring a direct hit on the top of Andrea's head! The effect was equally surprising, as all participants were knocked to the ground by the blow, in genuine RITSLOL convulsions.

Yes, the decoy has served me well over the years, claiming each one of my snow-throwing children as casualties, some several times. I have wondered, on occasion, if they were really falling for the trick, or were just letting me have my fun because they knew how much I enjoy it. Either way, I know they are now well enough versed in it that they will pass on this tradition to their own children, who I hope will pass it on to theirs.

Yep! There's nothing like a good snowball fight to make me feel young again. Uh oh! It's time to take my licks! Incoming!