Joy and Terror: Skiing With My Family

The things we do (and don’t do) for the people we love

Every Sunday is Rope Tow Day at my house. After a hearty lunch, my kids and husband load downhill ski gear into the back of the truck and head out to Ohlson Mountain, which technically, is more of a hill than a mountain, but is steep and offers plenty of opportunities for families to play together.

It’s a sweet scene. There’s a bonfire at the bottom of the hill and people sipping coffee from their thermos, toddlers with skis on leashes attached to their parents, and teens booming music from their pockets. Grandma shows up to volunteer and sign people in. My sister-in-law comes and the cousins go zooming around together.

This is not some fancy resort. Most of the gear is borrowed, handed down, or purchased used. There is no chair lift. There’s only a rope that hauls people to the top with big smiles.

I married into a family where skiing is life.

This is pretty cool. I am seriously attached to my cross-country skis to appreciate the woods and trails around my house.

But downhill? I find this scene mildly terrifying.

We spend all this time getting our kids to walk upright and be safe, and then we wax sticks, attach them to their feet, put them up very high, and say “go fast!”

Whenever I get to the top of the hill, I fret about potential medical bills and mentally map out the slowest, safest route. And when I get to the bottom, I congratulate myself for not dying or harming my knees. Then I take a deep breath and do it again.

My very fast 11-year-old, who wakes up from dreams that she’s won gold at the Olympics, very much wants me to love this sport. She asked me last Sunday, “are you having fun mom?”

“Yes, sweetie.”

No, actually, I wasn’t. I had just slid halfway down the big hill and was ready to cry. Behind my sunglasses, I was putting on my brave face, thinking “I’m 40. I can do this.”

A few minutes later, we’re standing in line. It’s almost my turn, and as I reach to grab the rope, she says, “Mom, I need your help.”

Those words have some kind of muscle memory encoded in them, so I simultaneously grab the rope, turn backward, and flop on my face. The rope stops (its own kind of skiing taboo), my foot breaks free from its ski, and I crawl over to my daughter.

“Can you put my hair in a better ponytail?” she asks.

Gah!%#$%%#$%

I fix her hair and then spend the next 45 minutes trying to fix the binding on my ski. My sister-in-law hands me a cup of coffee with Baileys, and that’s probably not going to help my dexterity, but seemed like a good idea in the moment.

Have I mentioned what a bright, beautiful day it is? Seriously, this is Alaska, but people are out with their t-shirts. The warmth and laughter are not congruous with the internal storm inside of me.

I fix my ski and go out for a couple more runs, then I decide to be a grown-up.

I’m done.

This is why we brought both trucks after all.

That night I stopped faking it with my daughter, who was born with an expert mama-o-meter and knows I was struggling. I say:

“You’re right. Downhill skiing isn’t as fun for me as it is for you. It’s harder for me. But that’s okay for us to feel differently. I want to learn to be a part of what you love, but my favorite part will probably always be watching you go fast.”

She says, “But I want to go skiing with you.”

I sigh, thinking of the previous weekend and how she wanted me to go off jumps… which will never happen.

So I say, “I want to ski with you too, but if you want to go with me, you’ll have to take a few runs a little slower. I probably will never want to go the challenging routes you take.”

Then she was onto the next thing, practicing the piano and annoying her little sister.

You know what this is about? Yes, it’s partly about having the humility of learning new things. But, more, it’s about modeling for my daughters my limits, my physical human limits, and that it’s okay to have them. To join an activity as far as I’m comfortable, and to call it good, even if everyone else around me is having a blast.

Knowing when to call it quits is an important life skill.

My daughters are going to grow up and life will present them with all kinds of challenges, some of them will be exciting, a few they’ll have to do regardless of what they want, and a handful will require them to say “uh, no, that’s not for me.”

And some, they’ll join because the people they love do them.

But I want my girls to say “enough” without shame or embarrassment.

So next weekend I’ll probably go again. It is getting a little easier. But if the conditions are poor or if the bonfire looks extra inviting, then I’ll stand around chatting, taking the scene in, and cheering on my daughters… from the bottom.

If you want the funny version of this article, check out this piece…

Or this…