Publication: THE MIAMI HERALD
A ski trip is a perfect family vacation, because it gives
you a chance to spend quality time with your kids, both on
the ski slopes and, later on, in the emergency room.
Just kidding! I'm sure you'll have a great time on your family
ski trip, as long as you remember the Number One Rule for
Skiing Safely with Your Kids, which is: Never ski with your
kids. It's OK to be on the same general mountain as
your children, but under no
circumstances should you attempt to go down the mountain
the same way they do.
The problem is that children, being young and naive, do not
understand the laws of physics. They've heard of gravity,
they don't have a lot of direct, personal experience with
it. So when they stand at the stop of a large snow-covered
mountain wearing long slippery sticks on their feet, they
think, "This is gonna be FUN!"
Whereas you -- a mature adult familiar with gravity from having
it yank downward on your body parts with increasing force
for decades -- know that there is a good chance that you will
fall and slide headfirst at high speed into the tree-infested
forest, where you will most likely perish and be eaten by
The result is that your kids have more confidence than you,
which makes them better skiers. Not always, of course: There
is period during which you are the superior skier. This period
lasts from the child's birth until roughly a half-hour after
the child first puts on skis. These are known as the "golden
minutes of family skiing."
But after this period ends, your kids quickly become much
better than you. There are no exceptions: All children
ski better than their parents. You take the winner of the
Olympic gold medal in
the men's downhill event -- some guy who can hurtle down a
brutally difficult, near-vertical mountain slope at 93 miles
per hour, and I guarantee you that, when that same guy goes
skiing with his family, his 6-year-old daughter is wayyyyyy
ahead of him, far down the hill, impatiently yelling, "Come
ON, dad! Hurry UP!"
Does this mean that family skiing is no fun? Not at all! It
just means that you as, a parent, must guard vigilantly against
the danger that you will wind up skiing with your child. It's
not easy. When I go skiing, my son, Rob -- who is clearly
thinking inheritance -- pesters me constantly to ski with
"Come on Dad!" he'll say. "There's this one
run that's really fun!"
"But is it hard?" I'll say.
"No!" he'll say. "It's mostly a green!"
Here Rob is referring to the standard color-coding system
classify the difficulty level of ski slopes, in which green
means "fairly easy," blue means "intermediate,"
and black means "certain death."
I myself am a green-slope man. I am not ashamed of this. If
there were an easier color than green -- say, pink, denoting
slopes that were flat, or actually inside the ski lodge --
I would ski on those.
Rob, of course, skis strictly on black slopes, unless he can
find some color that is even more dangerous, such as ultraviolet.
So when he asks me to ski with him, at first I always refuse.
But he keeps after me, pestering, pestering, until finally
the cold mountain air has killed enough of my brain cells
that I have the functional IQ of a Yoo-Hoo bottle, and I agree
to ski with him.
And it's always the same. We ski for a little way, and it's
fine. And then, without warning, we come to: a cliff. There's
a sign stating that this particular run is called something
like "The Organ Donor." At the bottom, thousands
of feet below, are tiny dark specks representing the bodies
of other parents who have been lured down this run by their
Rob doesn't even slow down.
"Come on, Dad!" he says, disappearing over the edge
of the cliff and falling like a stone, but faster and with
less concern for his own safety. "It's easy! Just..."
Beyond that point I can no longer hear Rob's voice, because
exceeded the speed of sound. As for me, I spend the rest of
the day working my way down the cliff, inch by excruciating
inch, like a mountain climber in reverse. Sometimes I can't
move at all and have to cling to the side of the mountain,
shrub-like, until the spring thaw.
So I avoid skiing with Rob. I still sometimes ski with my
Sophie, who is 5, and thus is in the waning seconds of the
golden minutes. Together, we putter down the beginner slopes,
moving about as fast as the line at the Department of Motor
Vehicles. Sophie still thinks her old man is a pretty good
skier. Of course, she also thinks she can talk to lizards.
But I'll enjoy this era while it lasts, because I know that
soon enough Sophie will be rocketing down the Organ Donor
with her brother, while I cling, shrublike, to the cliffside.
Maybe I should take up poker.
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