“Skiing combines outdoor fun with knocking down trees with your face.” – Dave Barry

Every autumn, just before Hallowe’en, I become possessed. An other-worldly sensation overcomes me, and I sniff at the air like a truffle hunting pig let loose in a French forest. *Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale* Ahhhh! The smell of snow on the mountains captivates me. Fresh, virgin snow. Pure. Almost unholy, yet as close to God as one can be on Earth. Winter sporting enthusiasts know what I’m talking about – a glance of the first traces of powder on the peaks beyond is enough to get the heart pumping and the soul leaping. All I can think about from then on is getting myself to the ski hill, and orgasmically revelling in the first trip up the chair lift that season.

Sadly, I have been repeatedly foiled by nature, geography or parenthood for much of the last half decade. The siren call of a snapping binding has only been realized a handful of times since my children were born. I spend much of the ski season staring longingly at the white capped peaks around me, dreaming of by-gone winters spent wrecking my knees on mogul runs. Whether it was because we lived in flat prairie places (I briefly lived in a location that had a “ski hill” that was created by tossing some dirt over the former garbage dump), couldn’t get time off work or was pregnant (apparently skiing, horseback riding and smoking crack are bad when you’re with child) – I have missed the mountains fiercely. This year, I have been sending my husband subtle hints that me+ alpine sporting = needs to happen before I run away to become a tow lift operator in the Italian Alps. Smart cookie that he is, The Old Man picked up my vibes, and announced over Christmas dinner that Boxing Day 2009 was going to be “Family Tubing Day” at the local ski resort. While sticking my fat ass in an inner-tube and shushing down the bunny-hill with a child on my lap isn’t quite the same as night skiing on a double black diamond run, it was good enough for now.

Boxing Day. Morning.  We (read: Tia) gathered our gear. It’s amazing how everything you need for a day in the snow disappears into another dimension the minute you need it, isn’t it? After 45 minutes of me shouting profanity, threatening the existence of various people, and rooting around in boxes/closets/drawers/under the beds/in cars/buggies/mailboxes/refrigerators and in various parts of the garage, I managed to round up sufficient (if not hideously mismatched) snow apparel for the four of us. My spouse settled the spawn in their car seats, and I ran around the house, turning off every light in the building. We departed for the hill, which was, allegedly, about 35 minutes away by car. After about an hour, we were ready to beat whomever compiled the website for the resort, as they were clearly deranged, or just a compulsive liar. Eventually, after winding up the corkscrew-esque dirt road to the resort, we parked our mini-van in the vast wasteland of other mini-vans, and headed for the ticketing shack. Nobody died en route, and nobody got lost. This is a testament to my personal bravery and mental fortitude, as the “Baby” (who is almost three) started kvetching the second we got out of the car.

“Wahhhhhhhhhh! I hate deese snow paaaaaaaants! They ITCHY! I no like dis haaaaaaaaaat! I cowd! It cowd out! I hungwy!”

Oh. Joy. Oh. Rapture.

My husband and older child, sensing that this was not going well, did the helpful thing: they clipped their day passes to their zippers, and bolted. I was abandoned with the red-faced howler monkey, who wasn’t grooving on the alpine high. After cursing various deities, I elected to drag the pint-sized protester to the washroom, where I proceeded to spend the next several days trying to unzip, unsnap, undo, and pull down her snow gear. After pottying, adjusting some ill-fitted layers, and cramming a granola bar into her, the Baby was ready to join the holiday masses on the hill.

I had dressed the kids and myself for sub-zero conditions. Magically, the sun was out, and it was “t-shirt/no-gloves” conditions. Because I’m the kind of ski-nut that used to take to the slopes in a bikini, I had remembered to pack sun-block and sunglasses for the kids (but not myself, of course.) A few layers were shed, some lotion was slathered. Several hours of tubing and walking up the hill went by, and fun was had by all. Our eventual decision to leave was met with much vocalized protest by the elder child, who seems to have inherited my gene for snow lust.

The little people passed out in the van about 5 minutes after departing the parking lot, and Mr. Man and I had a peaceful ride in the dwindling sunshine, all the way home. It was almost romantic. We agreed to making it an annual holiday tradition.

I have a sunburn.

Considering heading to the hills with a wee one this winter, but unsure where to start? I’ve the leg work for you!

Tia’s Tips for Taking Toddlers on Alpine Adventures

• Layer clothing – you can take it off the child or add it back on as weather conditions require.
• Children are sensitive to exposure – be prepared to pack it in early if your kid isn’t digging it.
• Your kid WILL get sunburn, even if there is haze. Slather them in high SPF sunblock, just like at the beach.
• Snow blindness sucks – bring kiddy sunglasses to minimize glare. Oh, yeah. A strap for them is a must, lest they get lost.
• Kid friendly snacks that fit in your pack or pocket are a must. Skiing = hungry.
• Don’t forget to hydrate your short person.
• Bring your own meal -lodge food is high priced, high fat, and slow to arrive.
• Make sure your kid is easy to ID if lost in the milieu of snow revellers.
• Stash some extra mittens/gloves/socks in your pocket/pack/locker. Wet = misery.
• Minimize the “are we there yet” boredom by giving them things to do in the car.
• Make frequent trips to the toilet, and know that it’s going to suck having to undo the winter gear
• Consider two-way radios for you and the other adult you are with, so that you can split up without confusion.

If you see me in the lodge, buy me a Hot Toddy, will ya?

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