Winter fitness for mum
As a mum, you can do almost anything as long as you are flexible enough. Ultimately, everything is just a question of interpretation. Take winter sports, for example. The conventional view of it involves hurtling down the slopes on all kinds of sliding equipment against a majestic mountain backdrop - surrounded by other winter sports enthusiasts.
But there is another way. During our first family ski holiday, I had to completely reinterpret this term. Our three-year-old son was not yet ready for ski school, which is why I, who don't particularly appreciate the hustle and bustle on the slopes, went through the toddler programme with him.
It was a beautiful day, the sun was shining, snow-covered fir trees, pretty little huts and bizarre mountain peaks posed in front of the glistening snow. I imagined a peaceful day of hiking in the majestic mountain world away from the pistes with a long final descent on a sledge and headed to the ski resort with my son.
The place lost much of its silence when the son began to play.
At first, we looked for a quiet spot in the middle of picturesque snow-covered wooden huts and made ourselves comfortable. However, the place lost much of its silence when the son started to play: Pirates! Spears! Cannons! Knives! Aeroplanes! Bang bang bang!
My goodness, this testosterone, I thought and tried to at least appreciate the landscape, while I had to punctuate my son's game with periodic shouts: «Watch out! It's going down there! Hold on tight!»
My goodness, this oestrogen, I said to myself and finally realised that I had to offer more action. So we took the winter hiking trail to the Munggä hut. The son on the sledge, me on the zip line. The sledge was heavy, the path was steep and the sun was blazing.
Drenched in sweat, I trudged steadily through the tranquil mountain landscape. When suddenly a pensioner, armed with hiking poles, a pair of stupid sunglasses and a determined grin, followed at my heels.
His wife was already far behind in the field, and Grandad saw his mum with the three-year-old in tow as easy prey on the mountain. But I don't just have mountaineering skills, I also have a biting ambition. I picked up the gauntlet. Grandad would be surprised.
The other winter hikers gave us thoughtful looks as we ran up the mountain, red-faced and with our lungs flying. Unfortunately, this wasn't the kind of action the son had in mind, and he'd never heard of team sports either.
Because he is truly my son, it had to be extreme sledging.
He slid around impatiently on the sledge, weakening my position considerably. Then he started to whinge: «I want a break! Go down!» I gasped: «Later, we're not at the Munggä hut yet.»
But you can't run a race and convince renegades at the same time. For better or worse, I had to let Grandad nip past us and grudgingly plunged down into the valley with my son. When we got to the bottom, the little one was thrilled. And because he is truly my son, it had to be extreme sledging.
We took the gondola back up and the sledge back down. And then again. Up, down, up, down, up, down. «More!» cheered the son every time we reached the top. «Groan!», I replied and that was about all I was capable of when the lifts finally closed.
In the evening in the hut, my husband was surprised. «So knackered from all that sledging?» he asked. «I think you need to do more sport.»
© Tages-Anzeiger/Mamablog
