skis for sippies

Our family ritual at Lake Powell starts with a pre-dawn tap on the shoulder. Scott's mom rises just as the sun starts to paint the sky yellow-orange and sneaks about the houseboat stealthily waking the stalwart waterskiers, those of us willing to sacrifice the warmth of our sleeping bags and a few hours of sleep for that oh-so-precious Lake Powell commodity - glass. That 80-degree water that reflects a mirror image of the cliffs and the sunrise and begs for your ski to cut first tracks.

When we first hear Sandy moving around, heads pop up like groundhogs from unrecognizable piles of pillows and quilts. Hair like muppets, eyes puffy from a late night of cards, breath rank from too many rounds of the cookie barge - a plastic cookie tray that circles the card table with everything from jerky and Cheetos to fudge jumbles and Oreos. Armed with sweatshirts and blankets even though the water is 78 degrees just like the air temperature before it soars back up to it's typical 3-digit day, we head off in search of "the" water, ears and eyes strained to make sure we beat all the other ski boats to the punch.

You can't really explain skiing the "butter" at Lake Powell. These two- or three-hundred-foot high sculpted red rock cliffs mirrored in perfectly smooth blue water embrace you on either side as you carve back and forth on the glassy water. Usually all by yourself, not another boat in sight. It's like a religious experience.

This week, however, with two toddlers to mind, we have traded our morning ski runs for childcare duties. We are still up at the ass crack of dawn, mind you, watching the sun poke her head over the canyon walls. But now instead of throwing down some sweet cuts and shooting up a backlit ski spray, we are changing diapers, filling sippy cups, wiping runny noses and parsing out Cheerios one at a time to avoid a crumbly carpet disaster. 

The first day, I sat in the houseboat amazed at the miracle of my little diaper-clad daughter climbing on and off the couch giggling proudly at her own antics. Tender-hearted and teary at the sight of my tow-headed son and his daddy snoring rhythmically, each with a hand tucked casually behind his head in a picture of complete bliss and relaxation.

And then I heard the far-off familiar rumble of a ski boat taking off. I could picture the skier being tugged out of the water, chest tight and nerves high with anticipation for a sweet run in perfect water and, for a fleeting moment, I longed for that peaceful exhilaration of the morning ski run. And then Sloane ran over with arms spread wide and captured my legs in a 1-year-old bear hug. That is my new butter.