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A Family That Skis Together...
Bonding on the Bunny Slope
By Colleen Frye
Pointing my ski tips downhill for the first time from the snowy summit, my husband and children beside me offering encouragement, I wondered how I had gotten myself in this position – 2,250 feet above my comfort zone. That would be the ground, at sea level, with my two feet firmly planted on it.
Parental wisdom says a mother can perform heroic and Herculean feats when her children need her, enduring sleep deprivation, changing toxic diapers a HAZMAT team wouldn't touch, cleaning up vomit after a spaghetti dinner without gagging. Not to mention childbirth. But nobody told me skiing was on this list.
I had tried skiing in my younger days. I quickly realized my fear of falling, fear of fractures, fear of freezing, fear of fastening two long thin boards to my feet and careening downhill while other skiers dived frantically out of my way.
Skiing, in fact, was the only prenuptial agreement I had insisted upon when my husband, who had skied about every peak in New England and the Swiss Alps – twice – proposed. His ideal vacation: stepping out the hotel door into the snow and skiing down to the lift. My ideal vacation: stepping out into the sand and walking into the ocean. So our deal was, he could ski and I'd be content to sit in the lodge with my book and a good cup of coffee. For me, there would be no skiing, no way, no asking, no whining, no thinking I'll change my mind.
