My Awful Experience Teaching My Son to Ice Skate

They say those who can't do it, write about it. And that expression has never been more true than when I speak of ice skating. Frankly, it baffles me that there are actually people who consider this recreation. Till now, I've kept my disdain for this activity under wraps, believing that I would be seen as a fossil who'd lost his child-like spirit. But I fucking hate it. If given the choice between ice skating at Rockefeller Center and manually chopping down its Christmas tree with a dull butter knife, I'd seriously have to think about it.

So, you can imagine my surprise Saturday morning when I overheard Sonia joyously asking my almost 3-year-old son Antonio if he wants daddy to take him to endure this very activity. I'd never wanted him to have a tantrum of defiance so badly before, but he was totally for it! I was totally not. It was like asking Ray Charles for driving lessons.

For the remainder of Saturday morning, I lobbied for Sonia to take him. I complained of a sore back, I made sure I paid more attention to Nate to intentionally piss Antonio off. None of that worked, and by 1:00, I was packing Antonio into the car on our way to the Ice Vault, in Wayne. Fucking a.

We walked into the ominously large building and were immediately greeted by the rental station/ticket window. It reminded me of the first time I went skiing in 1998, the seasoned pros shushing past my clueless, inexperienced ass while I meekly tip-toed up to the cashier, hoping I wouldn't say anything stupid that might reveal my novice status. I tried (in vain) to approach the counter with confidence, asking for an adult size 10 skate, and sought counsel on what size I should get for Antonio.

I said, "He wears a size 9 shoe, so wouldn't that mean he's a 10 in ice skates?"

The snobby winter sport buff behind the counter mumbled, "No, he'd be a 9." I immediately realized how ludicrous my question must've sounded. But it turns out I was right! Antonio said the 9s were too tight- not that Sammy Snowshoe acknowledged the erroneous judgment call. Move to Vermont and listen to Phish albums. Dick.

I never realized what a fundamentally bad idea ice skating was until I was forced to teach it.

So, what I realized the hard way (is there any other way?) is that simultaneously putting ice skates on yourself and a rambunctious 3-year-old is akin to juggling chainsaws while boxing a kangaroo- it's seriously scary shit. If I put his on first, he'll start trying to leave while I'm desperately forcing my shell-shocked feet into my own. If I put mine on first, I'll have to awkwardly kneel while struggling through the process of ensuring his shoestrings are looped around each one of those 27 hooks. I decided to go the awkward route. Pain and discomfort immediately ensued to form a formidable duo, wreaking havoc on my brittle soul.

Now...if you need to be reminded how out of shape you are, lace up a pair of ice skates (which, regardless of what size they are never feel like they fit). I've never, in my life, felt comfortable on ice skates. Probably because I've never, in my life, been in shape. It is an intense, totally un-fun physical workout for a part of my body that calls cushion-y Pumas home. No sooner did I hit the ice when my feet are screaming for mercy. Six-year-old girls are effortlessly gliding past me as I valiantly grab the railing on the side of the rink while holding an even more unbalanced Antonio under my other arm. Not even a minute on the ice and I'm grunting like I'm Fat Bastard dropping a wintry mix into a toilet bowl. Despite how transparent my unhappiness is, I still manage to squeak out an "Isn't this awesome?!" to Antonio. He actually nods! It was clearly time for me to plant the hate seed in his impressionable mind.

Fifteen minutes into my Clark Griswold impression and we're not even halfway around the rink, as I whispered disparaging remarks like "I don't blame you if you want to go home" and "wow, this is so much less exciting than the couch." And the overall delay was partly due to my inability to carry a 30-pound human across a frozen surface and partly because I had no motivation to circumnavigate said rink, aside from another lap (and no one, Antonio included, wanted that). So, the first chance my reluctant yet accommodating son got he shouted, "There's a door!" while pointing to the nearby penalty box. I can't be sure whether he wanted off the ice because of his own inabilities or to avoid being dragged recklessly across the ground like the tarp at Yankee stadium. Either way, I was happy to be done, despite the $27 I paid to be reminded I am not an athlete. I crumbled to the floor, looking up at an amazingly docile Antonio who gazed at me like he often does when he realizes I'm losing my shit.

Then, to my horror and surprise, he grinned and said, "I can come back here with Tyler!"

Here's hoping he develops a strong affinity for chess in the meantime.

Thanks for reading, as always. Pass along if you enjoyed!


-Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
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