From fairy tales to film, everyone is obsessed with the idea of one’s “firstborn.” But what about the lastborn?
For my part, I’ve recently discovered that the lastborn child has magical abilities.
Of course, you have no idea what I’m talking about right now. Allow me to explain:
At the end of a long vacation week came a ski day for my wife, daughter and me. Discussions went back and forth as to where to go. Mount Wachusett never became an option given it is an over priced, over crowded, underwhelming experience in spite of their advertising (I think the slogan should be – “little mountain skiing at big mountain prices: you might find worse, but you won’t pay more”).
Other options included mountains around two hours away. We eventually settled on a return to Crotched Mountain where my daughter has been involved in a thoroughly enjoyable school ski program, in stark contrast to prior experiences at the operation criticized above.
I hadn’t been to Crotched Mountain in over twenty six years and found it to be a thoroughly pleasant, small mountain experience that likely could use a few more customers. It’s a perfect little place to take novice and intermediate skiers without having to pay for the lift tickets with a financing plan.
So, on Saturday we loaded up the car for a little quality time on the slopes. We planned our arrival perfectly, we would have about 20 minutes before the lifts opened to suit up and get on the mountain for some early groomed runs.
There was, however, one slight glitch that became apparent only after we parked in the Crotched Mountain parking lot.
My daughter forgot her ski coat.
The equanimity with which I took this news astounded me. It was if I left my own body and observed this aging, portly man operating with extreme calm. I got out of the car and did the obligatory check of the trunk to look for the coat that was not there. I looked at the parking lot attendant and laughed while he winced and asked how far we had to drive to get home. Lucky for us we did head to Crotched Mountain, which is all of 35 minutes away.
All that having been said, my reaction goes against type. I do not know if it is birth order, gender, or, as the definite long shot, my own maturity, but there is no way I would have handled this situation the same way ten years ago, when the daughter was not on the planet and her three older brothers would have been 9, 7 and 5.
I have absolutely no doubt my head would have spontaneously combusted and there would have been blood on the seats as I reached for the miscreant who had muddled up the plans.
But rather than three children bickering with one another in the back seat, there was one singing along to the radio. Rather than three rowdy boys it’s my darling youngest and only daughter, albeit with the potential to launch verbal assaults that would make a sailor blush, thanks to her three older brothers and, sadly, her father.
I have a close friend with an only daughter and have always told him that raising one child isn’t parenting, it’s a hobby. As I would be enmeshed in untangling the various slights that had caused my three sons to start going at one another, he would simply smile at me and say, “I like my hobby,” and flee for the exits.
So for whatever reason, I calmly returned home, did a little driveway plowing with the tractor, ate an early lunch, stapled my daughter’s winter coat to her body and returned to Crotched Mountain for a pleasant day of skiing. Well, a pleasant HALF day of skiing.
When returning home from the ski day my wife explained to the boys how their sister had forgotten her ski coat. They in various and hushed tones asked what had happened to her.
When my wife said essentially nothing, they would turn and look at me in mock horror as if to ask, “OK, who are you and what have you done with our father?”
One, staring far off into the distance, just shook his head and said, “You would have killed us if we did that.”
Can’t say I disagree with them. But they aren’t the youngest, and they aren’t the only daughter.