I was up at the mountain today having my weekly ski afternoon with Charlie, the mega rock star seven-year-old wonder kid. It was just the two of us today as the volunteer list is getting a bit thin as the program winds down (next week is sadly the last week). It was snowing pretty heavily and everything was covered in thick powder, making Charlie one very happy powder-hound. I don't know what got into him, but he just had no interest in practicing turns, stopping or keeping his arms up today. The only thing he wanted to do was snowball fight. He threw snow at the instructors, the liftees, the other participants and passersby. He even pitched a few handfuls at people from his vantage point in the chair lift. There was just no stopping him.
As we were making our way down his favorite gully run, I manged to trip over my skis and fall (big surprise, right?). The ensuing conversation went like this:
"Haha! You fell!" says Charlie, who quickly flings a wet, heavy handful of snow at my neck.
"Hey now--reign in that snow throwing, okay? Let's snowball fight at the bottom of the run. Sound good?"
"But can I through snow at you when you fall down?"
I pause and think about this. "Yes. But only when I fall down and only when we're in a desiginated snow ball fighting area like the hut. Deal?"
I haul myself up, dust myself off and look down to see Charlie scooping a fresh handful of snow. "What's that for?"
"Oh. I'm waiting."
And then he smiled. SMILED a great big, "I know I'm super cute and there's nothing you can do about it" smile.
I love this kid.