“So, how was The BBQ at The Beach on Sunday?”

The short answer: Skip to the bottom! Spare yourself all the gory details!

The long answer: Here it is. You’ve been warned.

I haven’t written about this yet, because I haven’t had the energy. I didn’t think I “needed” to until I was emailing a friend last night. All of a sudden, my email turned into a complete novel, and I realized that maybe I need to let some of this out.

Sunday, we were invited to a “BBQ at The Beach.” It’s not what you’re thinking. There is a ski resort in our area that has dubbed their parking lot “The Beach.” Toward the end of the season, our friends get together and have a tail-gating party (hence the BBQ part of the title). We’ve been to this many years in the past. To be honest, it’s never my favorite event, because by the time May (or even late April) rolls around, I’m SO DONE with the snow. I don’t ski, so my happiness is at the mercy of whatever I can find to keep myself occupied in the camp chairs we have set up by the grill. Sometimes this is good. Sometimes this is bad.

Anyway, we were invited again this year, and we’ve not gone since Claire was born, so we decided to go.

First off, let me say that this weekend could have been a lot worse. Really, I’ve been to the BBQ at The Beach when it has been horrible weather, or we’ve had to park so far away that it’s difficult to unload the car, etc. The weather was awesome. Our friends got up at FOUR IN THE MORNING to get an awesome spot. And, by the time we got there around 10am, all the lots were full, but the lot attendant to the main lot let us drive in to unload our things. My hubby had to give him his Driver’s License at the gate, but we really had no other options. As we were unloading the car, another car was leaving and they gave us their spot! Rockstar parking! My hubby walked back up to the entrance, explained that we got a legit spot, and the guy gave him his ID back with no trouble. Sweet!

So far so good! Maybe this will be a really good day after all! Why was I so hesitant to take a two-year old to the BBQ at The Beach?

Well, because she’s two. And “The Beach” is misleading. There’s still snow. Have I mentioned how sick I am of the snow? Plus, I’m very sensitive to the sun, meaning, I will burst into flames after about 15-mintues, and at that elevation, the sun is brutal. (Or, “awesome” if you’re a normal person.) Claire inherited my fair skin, so I slathered on the sunscreen. It wasn’t until we got home that I realized I didn’t get the sunscreen on her face evenly. The area under her eyes was burned, and she looked like a poor little red raccoon!

How did this happen? Well, by the time we got out of the car, she had her sunglasses on and refused to take them off. That’s great! I love it when she wears her sunglasses. I slathered on the sunscreen around her face, careful not to get it in her eyes. I do have a sunscreen stick that I always use on her scar, EVERY time we leave the house, so that area was covered.

About 20 minutes later, she took off her sunglasses and refused to wear them. (Yes, it was the opposite tantrum…but she’s two, so this didn’t even surprise me…and it didn’t even really register as a full-on tantrum.) But, I forgot to reapply the sunscreen to her face.

When we got home and I saw her sunburn, I felt horrible. I still feel horrible. I hope by getting all this out, I can let go of this. It happened. I can’t change it. I’ve been slathering on the Aloe Vera every 20 minutes since, and I won’t let it happen again.

*sigh*

Anyway, after she throws off her sunglasses in a fit of rage, she decides she wants to go home. Now. “Can we go get in the car and go home now, Momma?”

“Uh, no. Daddy is skiing, and we have to stay here and have fun.”

We’d remembered our sled, so I encourage her to go for a ride in that. The spot we had by the slopes was awesome. It was just gradual enough that I could literally run beside the sled, guiding it slightly with the rope, and it went by itself. Down the hill. Up the hill wasn’t as much fun. (It never is.) I tried pulling the sled with the rope, but it tipped the sled back enough to freak out Claire, and all the screaming was freaking out all the skiers. So, I let her hold the rope while I pushed the sled from behind.

I’m an old lady.
This hurts my back.
But, there was no more screaming, so it was worth it.
Of course, because there was no more screaming, I was required to do this 23 more times.
Sweet.

Rather than collapse from pure exhaustion, I convince Claire that we need to take a break.

More complaining. More begging to go home. And, those were just the voices in my head.

Kidding! Claire was complaining and begging to go home, too.

Then, all of a sudden, she informs me that I need to change her diaper RIGHT NOW. She’s adamant, and I’m not taking any chances. I could have changed it in the car, but if what she says has happened has happened, I think it’s best to use the Women’s Restroom at the lodge.

So, we walk all the way up the hill.

The parking lot is sandy, mucky, slushy, and it has awesome rivers running through it. Claire wavers between “pick me up!” and “let me walk in the river!” So I oblige. Up. Down. Up. Down. Now, I’m really feeling like an old lady.

So, we get to the newly remodeled bathrooms, and they are really nice. They are not the horrific monstrosities that I remember from a few years ago. I get her up on the changing table and get the 15 layers of clothing removed. The diaper? The emergency situation that made us come here in the first place? Bone dry.

*sigh*

But, her socks are soakin’-wet! Her feet are like little chunks of ice!! Maybe this is why she said she wanted to go home so soon? Had I not had to change her, I wouldn’t have known this was happening!

And, this brings me to her “snow boots.” I am using quotation marks on purpose, because these are not “snow boots.” These have proven themselves to be “walk around the mall” boots. Her feet got wet one other time she wore them, but I thought it was because the snow went in the tops. The snow didn’t go in the top this time. The snow is packed. These boots are worthless garbage, and that’s just where they went when we got home. For real. It felt so good to throw them away.

I think I made an audible growl. Claire asked me what was wrong. I told her we had to figure out a way to get her socks dry and keep her feet from getting wet.

“We could get in the car and go home!” she suggested. Smart girl. She’s definitely my girl.

I warmed up her feet with my hands. I carried her over to the hand-dryers. Yes, the restroom was nice, but the floor was still covered in ski-boot slime. I couldn’t sit her on the floor. I didn’t want her standing in her barefeet, and the changing table was all the way across the room from the dryers.

So, I held her in one arm and tried to dry her tiny socks with the other. Did I mention that it was a sensored hand-dryer? It wasn’t one of those with the big round button you could keep pushing with your elbow. No, you had to hold your hand just right to get the blasted thing to run.

I was in the bathroom for three days.
We just got back this morning.
Kidding.
*sigh*

I finally got the socks dry without dropping her on her head. I then found a zip lock bag and a one of those blue baggies you use for really poopy diapers. I used those as boot liners.

Is my middle name MacGyver? Apparently.

I got the fifteen layers of snow gear back on, and down the hill we went. By that time, I was so frustrated that *I* wanted to get in the car and go home. But, my hubby has accused me of complaining “every time” I’ve been to this particular ski resort, so I kept my feelings to myself. (And, this rambling blog post doesn’t count. Because I said so.) He was having such a great time skiing, so I decided to take one for the team.

When he got back from a ski run, I told him what had happened. That’s when he told me that he’d packed a whole set of extra clothes for Claire, including socks. I couldn’t believe it. Part of me wished I would have known about that, but the realistic side of me would have probably dried her socks with the hand-dryer anyway. The make-shift boot liners worked well enough for the rest of the day, and we changed her into clean, dry socks for the ride home.

4pm rolled around, and it was time to go. I did my best to not skip to the car while whistling a happy tune. I was too exhausted to skip. Or whistle. But, I was happy to be leaving.

And, in a strange twist of fate, the ride home took exactly one hour. The one time Claire falls asleep in the car and is in desperate need of a long nap is the time we make record time home. Awesome.

So, let’s try this again: “How was The BBQ at The Beach on Sunday?”

The politically correct and polite answer: “My hubby had a great day skiing, and it was awesome to hang out with our friends!”

And, we’ll just leave it at that.