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Playing Hooky

A Mother's Dilemma

" It gave me a buzz, this playing hooky. Motherhood, with all of its constancy and its indelible mark on my heart, was invisible to others. Just another skier on the slopes, I relished my secret."

Shame and joy clog my heart. This is the first morning in almost nine months I awake to the guilty pleasure of knowing the day is all mine. I am going skiing! Loading the car with my skis, I am giddy with excitement. But when I drop off my son at daycare, my giddiness turns immediately to guilt. How can I leave my son in daycare when this is our day to hang out? I elected for a part-time work schedule so that I could spend more time with him at home. What am I thinking?
My source of guilt stems from using daycare for my pure, frivolous, self-centered reasons. Essentially, I am paying someone to watch my child so I can have fun. I feel criminal, like I am having an affair. Up until today, daycare had only been used as a means for me to go to work. My husband is good about sharing parenting duties and giving me some time in a day for myself, but never before had I paid someone to watch my child so that I could have leisure time. I am shirking my mothering responsibilities for personal self-centered interests.

On this day, My Day, not so long ago, big snowflakes were falling on the drive to the mountain but freezing when they hit the pavement. Drivers were inching up the pass on icy roads. I had an easy argument for turning around.
But I pushed on. As I drew closer to the ski resort, my thoughts turned toward the task of remembering how to ski. It had been three years from my last turns and my skis were sorely neglected. A fresh waxing would be a good place to start. At one time fat and vogue, my skis were tragically skinny compared to the new shaped skis. And my skiing attire was reeking of retro 80s.
When the shuttle arrived, I hefted my skis into the ski rack while other skiers carried skis onto the bus. I noticed that the new shaped skis were too fat to fit into the old-school ski racks. To my surprise - and delight - my tapered pants and cinch-waist coast was in sync with the 80s punk playing on the speakers. I cleaned my goggles before resting them on my forehead. It was almost cool to have the same pair I wore in third grade.
I watched skiers fidget with their many boot buckles, adjusting and readjusting for optimal support. I was glad for my 20-year-old rear-entry boots.
Despite the fact that I woke up at 7 a.m., skiers were heading in for lunch by the time the shuttle dropped us off. It didn't matter, I had arrived and that was no small accomplishment. Underneath my mismatched clothes and old-school gear was a liberated person. I was officially off-duty: I was neither professor, mother, wife, nor homemaker.
While preparing to rip through 17 inches of fresh powder in blissful aloneness, I felt close to my pre-baby self. I listened to the steady whoosh of the snow as my skis carved into it. My guilt from leaving my baby behind turned toward glorious thrill as I skied past snow-covered pines, clouds hovering in the valley below. It gave me a buzz, this playing hooky. Motherhood, with all of its constancy and its indelible mark on my heart, was invisible to others. Just another skier on the slopes, I relished my secret.
I did think about my son. It was almost his nap time. Would he go down easy? Would he fuss? Did he eat his breakfast? Would he take a bottle? But I was also gripped in powder: point my skis down mountain, square up my hips, keep my elbows tucked in, poles at waist level.
I hadn't planned on blabbing my secret but another woman, who happened to be a mother, shared a ride up a chair lift. I couldn't help myself. My confession came out in one breath: I dropped my son off at daycare just so that I could have a personal day. I awaited her judgment. Instead, she told me that she had almost cried because the mountain's daycare didn't have room for her two-year-old. "They squeezed her in but if they hadn't, I don't know what I would have done. This is my vacation." I looked hard at this woman, bundled up in Gore-Tex. She didn't look evil or heartless.
"Are you skiing alone?" she asked. I nodded, snacking on a bagel.
"Yeah, me too. I really like it. You can really get a good work-out and it's so much easier than skiing with a group." Underneath the lift a snowboarder attempted a flip off a cliff. We turned to watch him bite it. "I'm supposed to meet my son who's been skiing with his father all morning but I don't have cell phone service up here. I don't think I'll find them," she said casually.
She seemed happy. I clicked my skis together, knocking off a fresh dusting of snow. They felt 10 times lighter.

With my sin confessed - and absolved - I skied with a new-found freedom. On a steep run, I stopped to rest my burning legs. I was completely alone. A pine freed itself of a clump of snow, which floated silently to the ground in a fine mist. Snowflakes fell direct to the slope on this windless day. A swath of forest on the opposite ridge glowed in incandescent light. A dismal sun poked through the clouds, blue sky shining behind. Forgiveness felt at hand.
I ducked into the ski hut for lunch.
Perhaps, with time and patience, I will learn how to be an off-duty mom, to be able to schedule some me-time without feeling guilty. Parenting is a skill and letting go of that role is a learned skill as well.
I returned to the slopes with a new secret. Instead of cold beer stashed in my bag, I was skiing with the warm breast milk I had expressed during my lunch break. It was a symbol that first and foremost I am a mother, who happens to be away from her baby. But right then, cutting a line on skier left, nobody knew.

Karin Becker teaches writing at Fort Lewis College, Durango.