Maybe dangerpants are a good idea
PUBLISHED: 10:20 25 February 2019
I could do without one souvenir from our holiday, writes Jo Malone
I’m trying, and failing, to look fine as I bend down to pick something up.
Rob and I had our first ever week away without children since before our twinkle-toes-ten-year-old Keola was born.
It was absolutely superb. A week snowboarding in amazing snow in La Plagne. What made it even more of a treat was staying at a Ski Beat catered chalet where all we had to do was turn up at the dining table to be served amazing food by two very cheerful hosts.
I think the most housework related task we did all week was put the kettle on once, so getting back to real life is a bit of a shock.
It’s not helped by me trying not to limp about. Being very old school in the snowboarding world I didn’t wear any of the funky back pads, dangerpants, elbow pads or knee pads that everyone else seems to enjoy spending 30 minutes struggling into before they get anywhere near their boards.
But, not being particularly brilliant at snowboarding, I’m now seeing the sense of bulk padding – even if it does make your bottom look particularly lumpy – as after some very unglamorous topples, I am rather sore.
However I don’t want to tell Keola and little sister Thalia our week was anything other than brilliant. I know us going away and leaving them with family and friends was quite an event, and I want them to feel proud that they coped well so we could have an excellent time.
We did, it was awesome - but sitting, standing or bending down is a bit of trauma and those blue skies and powdery snow slopes seem like someone else’s memory as I discover that keeping moving is the only way to stop it hurting.
“Are you alright mum?” asks Keola as she catches me trying to bend sideways rather than forwards to pick up a dropped saucepan lid.
“I’m fine,” I say, and I think I’m getting away with it, ish, until Thalia gives me an impromptu hug around the middle and it’s so painful I almost fall over.
I’ve resorted to holding my bottom, which hurts so much it feels numb.
“How’s your numb bum mum?” the girls now ask, a lot, looking concerned but mostly loving the chance to say bum without me frowning.
“Don’t make me laugh,” I have to keep saying, getting a bit fed up with pain in the butt jokes.
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