If the Olympics are meant to inspire, it’s working. The kids had a four day weekend and spent every day skating on the pond. We shovelled out our own little short track through two feet of snow, with a pass in the middle to keep things interesting. The gentlemen decided they needed a rink as well, so they could set up a net and take shots on each other. The winter that was beginning to drag transformed into marvelous.
We were divided as to whether our arena should be called little Sochi, or the Ice Palace, but we agreed that it was perfect. I timed the kids doing laps so they could race each other without bloodshed. We played tag until I gave up on ever catching boy two without plowing girl two into a snow bank on the way.
Canadian Ice Dancers, Tessa Virtue and Scott Moir (world champions, and recent silver medallists in Sochi) are the talk of the house. The three younger ones (all on hockey skates) practiced their spins and dreamt out loud about figure skating lessons. Part A of my split personality smiles from a distance at how sincerely they discuss whether or not they would like to be in the Olympics some day. They skate on an indoor rink once or twice a year, but the impossible distance of the Olympics means nothing to them.
Part B of my personality lifts a back foot ever so slightly down the long stretch of little Sochi to see what it might feel like to glide along on one foot. My skate is approximately 2 cm off the ice, the glide no more than a second, bulky snow pants and twenty year old purple jacket notwithstanding, but I am picturing it differently. Leg stretched back, parallel to smooth ice, arms outstretched eloquent in flight without wings, all billowing silk and ruffles and lace, I am.
Part A does alright. She keeps the laundry done and the dishes washed. Part B, well, I had to put her to bed early the last few nights so as to give her the longest possible chance to dream about becoming an unusually late blooming figure skater.