We clip their little boots into their bindings and watch as they shuffle off in the icy snow. Ava immediately falls and gets her legs twisted under her.
“See! I’m terrible at skiing,” she says to me, glaring.
“No, honey, it just takes practice,” I console, using a peppy tone of encouragement that disgusts even myself.
I ski alongside my oldest as she strides, glides, trips and falls. The snow conditions are tricky. She’s wearing new, longer skis. But Ava’s biggest obstacle is her relentless perfectionist attitude, inherited, of course, from her mother.
“How come YOU don’t fall?” she demands furiously. Then she shouts— “I-HATE-SKIING!”
Once these three words are uttered, my veneer of patience shatters. I look around at the other happy #ski families, the smiling moms who are content to be sherpas, coaches, and cheerleaders for their children. I, on the other hand, selfishly crave my own personal ski. I’d love to leave my kids with a Ski Nanny and head off into the woods for an hour, gliding rather than trudging, getting a #workout rather than frozen fingers, reveling in the exhilaration of this unique full-body sport.