a full house

I am sitting on the sofa with my laptop perched on top of a cushion that is resting over my thighs.  I do this, because I don’t like the feel of the electrical rays penetrating my body.  I’m sure they still are, but somehow they don’t feel quite as weird when they are muffled by a pillow.

The reason I am sitting here in the family room blogging, instead of being tucked in my writing room working on my manuscript is that Dave and his friend have come over on their two days off to go mountain biking up at Whistler.  And yesterday they came downstairs (to my shock) at 8:30 am for breakfast.  Usually they are much later risers. 

They woke up early because it is quite a drive to Whistler and they wanted to get a good day of biking in.  Last night they said they were going to go back today, and I figured, it’s just as long a drive today as it was yesterday, so I didn’t want to go into my writing room and start working, because the minute I got my head back into the story, I’d have to come out and cook up their omelets.  I’ve got all the fixings laid out on the counter, from the early pre-take-Will-to-school-crowd’s breakfasts. 

Well, here it is a few minutes to nine, and there is no sign of the boys.  Correction, young men. 

Wait, I just looked up and saw that I had titled this blog, full house.  Our house has been busy.  A family member has been staying with us for the last while.  The other night Will had a friend over.  Then there’s Dave and Derek who come from the Island to see us, but also to careen down mountains at breakneck speeds that I don’t even want to contemplate.  When I heard that my boy liked indulging in a little mountain biking, I pictured peaceful off road riding.  Pedaling serenely, enjoying the flora and fauna.  Nicely built, hard packed dirt paths.  A picnic perhaps.

Well yesterday, I found out that they take a chair lift up the mountain.  Okay, I thought.  A chair lift up to the nice parkland area where they tool around and enjoy the wilderness.  But then at dinner I noticed that Dave had a scrape on his arm.  “What’s that?” I said.  “How did that happen? Oh no.”

“It’s nothing, Mom,” Dave said.  And I know I shouldn’t have fluttered and fussed, he is a grown man.  I know I shouldn’t have woken up in the middle of the night and spent a good portion of what should have been sleeping time, staring up into the darkness, remembering Derek letting it slip that the kind of mountain biking they did yesterday was the kind where the chair lift takes you up the mountain, SO YOU CAN CAREEN FULL TILT BACK DOWN!  Good God!  I didn’t even know people did that kind of thing.  It’s madness!  It’s crazy!  Who would do something like that?

My son. 

Anyway, he’s a grown man, otherwise, I would throw myself in front of the chair lift, arms outstretched.  I would be like those protesters who chain themselves to trees, but it would be my son I’m trying to save. 

Thank god he’s a careful sort.  Well, that’s what I tell myself.  Don said, last night when I woke him up with my worry, “It’s a guy-thing, Meg.  He’s always loved sports.  Guys do these things.  It’s what we do.  Look at me, I’m always coming home from hockey with scrapes and bruises, I’ve broken things, dislocated my shoulder, almost had my eye gouged out and still I go to hockey.  Why?  Because I like it.  It’s fun!”

And that’s supposed to make me feel better?

Posted by Meg Tilly on Wednesday, May 28, 2008 in Chewing the Fat

Page 1 of 1 pages