I can't believe the FYO wants to go sledding tonight.
After school last night we met Sidekick and her dad at THE HILL.
The HILL's conditions reflected the fact that the entire neighborhood's parents had the day off due to the federal holiday. It was smooth, icy and the moguls, left behind by would-be snowboarders and teenagers reliving their childhoods on toboggans heavy with their weight, warranted a sign plastered with a huge black diamond.
On one run, the FYO and I crowded on to our little purple saucer (I note the color because it was obviously a point of discord for the FYO: But I want to ride on a pink one!). I was unable to steer effectively enough and, according to Sidekick's dad, we hit each and every bump at its peak.
There must be some mathematical model out there predicting larger ass-bruises when the tangency between snow saucers and snow moguls occurs at each curve's peak--that is, where each curve's first derivative is zero. Combine this with a little physics that predicts that the "load" will catch more "lift" if the saucer's peak hits the mogul's peak at their highest points and you've got one sore 35-year-old here.
The FYO's reaction upon reaching the bottom of the hill:
The madness culminated with the FYO and sidekick heading down together after a guided push from Sidekick's dad toward what could only be referred to as a small, but insistent "ski-jump" in the middle hill.
As their little plastic toboggan raced toward the jump, my regret surfaced to Sidekick's Dad:
Oh my god! They're going to hit it!!
But it was too late.
They hit the jump, but not dead-on, which made it worse. As the little sled approached the left side of the jump, they twisted left. Soon we saw two distinct little bodies and their sled in the air -- none of which was touching any longer.
Then SMACK. They all landed.
Then a few pregnant seconds of quiet in the air.
Then Sidekick's wail.
This, on top of what must have felt to the FYO's like climbing Mt. Everest after each run, I can't believe she wants to go back.