By: Sarah Powling
For those of you who don’t know us, we’re the Powlings, a fun, physical, and very accident-prone family.
So what better activity for us to try? Why, rollerblading, of course. (What was I thinking!?)
After a very long winter, the weather finally decided to cooperate; and we had a couple of nice, spring days recently. Lucky for my sons, ages 4 and 5, the Easter Bunny decided to take advantage of the Toys”R”Us 30% off sale, and they were both given their first pair of rollerblades for Easter. (For the record, they also got every single piece of safety equipment that you could possibly wear.)
“What a great day to try out our new rollerblades,” I said, so excited to show the boys that I, too, had a pair that I’d secretly just bought for $15 at Dracut’s Sports Madness. They won’t even believe it, I thought. They’re gonna think I’m the coolest mom ever!
“Are those yours, Mama?” the oldest one (Joey) asked, confused and unimpressed.
“They are!” I exclaimed.
“Yay! Mama’s gonna rollerblade!” The youngest one (Jimmy) shouted, “You’re gonna be super fast!”
Oh, the disappointment they were both about to endure.
My excitement soon faded, as I realized that I couldn’t even bend my leg enough to get the skate on. It must just be a bad angle, I thought, as I desperately tried to wiggle it. I finally caved and had to ask my husband for help. Pretty soon he was standing across from me with my foot pressed up against his chest, as he shoved this rolling chunk of hard plastic onto my limb.
“It’s not gonna work! It’s not gonna work,” I screamed, as he made one final push. By some miracle, most of my foot went in; and, somehow, I was able to slam in the rest of it. This ordeal was repeated for the second foot, and by then I was so sweaty and exhausted that I needed help getting them both tied.
Finally, after what seemed like an hour, I was all laced up and ready to go! I couldn’t wait to show the kids how fun I was!
“Help me up,” I said to my husband with outreached arms. As I grabbed his arms, I could tell right away that the outcome would not be pleasant.
Apparently, there was some miscommunication. Instead of my husband pulling me up as I had envisioned, I proceeded to roll right under his legs at about 392 miles per hour, like some kind of complex figure skating move. And then, he let go.
“Sa, Saaa, SAAAAA!” He screamed, as I flew away down the driveway, coming to a hard crash. “Oh no. Are you okay?”
Just as I was about to react, Jimmy came skating over. He’s been falling a lot himself, and had actually just requested padding for his poor little butt because he kept landing on it. I quickly realized that this was my time to teach him a lesson.
“You okay, Mama?” He asked, hesitantly.
I wanted to say no and flop myself over to the grass to take a nap, and in my mind, I think I did. But instead I awkwardly pulled myself up, pretended that I didn’t need a chiropractor, and smiled crazily, “Woohoo, that was fun!” I said through clenched teeth.
“Mama,” Jimmy said, “It’s okay, I can hold your hand.”
“Actually, Mama,” Joey announced from the background, “Maybe you just shouldn’t rollerblade.”
Well, what can I say? He’s probably right. It was then that I realized that I’m just destined to be a regular old uncool mom forever. But hey, at least I won’t roll away.