Angelinos On Ice

The sun is shining, and it is 75 degrees. People are bundled in coats, scarves and hats. Only in Los Angeles, I chuckle to myself as I help Jacob lace up his skates. I am wearing a t-shirt, and I'm already sweating. Still negotiating Jake's laces and pretending to listen as he instructs me how to tie them, snippets of conversation fall into my ears:

"I haven't been ice skating in 17 years!"

"I've NEVER been ice skating!"

"My skates are too tight..."

"No, they're supposed to fit that way."

"Are you sure?"

"Not really..."

It's then I realize a hideous experiment is about to unfold: we are about to put a snowless city's inhabitants on a makeshift ice rink in the middle of Pershing Square. Only after this thought do I fully understand why giant signs yelling "SKATE AT YOUR OWN RISK" are everywhere, and why children clutch their parents with excitement-but-fear in their eyes.

All too soon, the death shoes are on everyone's feet and it is time to go. Time for me to fall and crack my teeth. But first, a surprise: Jake is holding a hand in the air, expectantly, in my direction.

This kid NEVER wants to hold my hand. Here he is though, waiting for me to take him skating.

Feeling mom-like in a good way, I lead him out and quickly learn that he has no idea what he is doing. Fortunately, neither does anyone else. For the first 15 minutes of the hour skate session, young and old alike clutch the walls and gingerly inch their way around, exclaiming over the fun of it all and holding digital cameras perilously outward to capture the moment. I take up a position on Jake's other side, and try to coach him as he slip-walks across the ice.

Did I mention I'm going to be his step-mom? Did I mention that this is the first time I've watched the kids all by myself? Did I mention that after we told them "we're engaged!" it was wierd and awkward and silent? Yeah, this kid will not fall. This kid WILL NOT eat it on the ice on my watch. There is more riding on this afternoon than Kaitlyn or Jacob know about, at least in my mind.

At first I'm trying to help him, and he's not listening. Jake is caught in the fun of the moment, the slippery-ness and laughter of it all, and does not seem to care. I wait 15 minutes, and then his competitive side kicks in; he wants to be better than the other kids, better than me. I model how to do it, give analogies and imagery, everything I have been trained to do. We lurch laps around the rink, refining his abilities. We stop twice to loosen and then tighten his skates. No fewer than five times he pitches forward and grabs my arm (catching me completely off guard), putting all his weight on me. No fewer than five times I hold up my 7 year old boy with one arm, balancing and somehow not falling. To borrow from Dave Eggers again: "I am America! I am the Olympics!"

After 45 minutes we have had enough, mostly because our ankles hurt. We amble to the benches and de-skate. Again I fuss with laces, and while I am at his feet untying knots he says it:

"Those other kids didn't know what they were doing, but I did because you taught me. Thanks for teaching me."

I fight tears the whole way home.