MORE FRENCH FRIES

Dear Laney,

Sometime last month, your dad decided you were ready for your first winter of downhill skiing. As with most of your dad's projects, this necessitated a trip to REI for some rope and webbing. He disappeared into the garage one Saturday afternoon, and reemerged an hour or so later with a new harness designed to literally guide you on your path to skiing superstardom. For practice, he took you on a few laps around the living room:

The thing is designed to have loops on either side of your waist so your dad can quickly hoist you up on the lift, and additional clips on the back so he can attach a rope when you get a little more advanced.

You were a little trepidatious when we first got to the ski hill, though you certainly looked the part of a semi-pro powder hound.

When you saw the chair lift for the bunny hill, you were suddenly very interested in skiing. I mean, according to you, the thing looked like a ride at Disney, and you couldn't wait to jump on. The problem with the lift is that it drops you at the top of the hill only, and then you must ski down. You were shocked - and more than a little angry - to learn this.

There's a classic method of teaching skiing that involves the terms "Pizza!" and "French fries!" "Pizza" describes what happens when you put the two front tips of your skis together, forming a triangle (or "slice of pizza") that effectively works as a snow plow. If you're committed enough to your "pizza," you could probably plant yourself at the top of the Matterhorn without sliding down. "French fries" is what happens when you make your two skis parallel and point them down the hill - they are side by side, like two french fries. When you want to stop? Pizza. When you want to go? French fries.

Pizza on the left, French fries on the right

After your first run, you decided you only wanted to get down the mountain one way: FAST. When dad would slow down, you'd holler, "No pizza! Just french fries!" You sure were lippy for someone who was doing zero percent of the heavy lifting. Your poor dad skied all day in a constant pizza position to keep your speed under control. I've never seen him so exhausted after a day of skiing, and his butt never got off the bunny hill.

You came home after that trip and thought about it for a few days before deciding that you were the second coming of Picabo Street, and you couldn't wait to go skiing again. It reminded me of those studies that say American students are lagging behind in math and science but are first in confidence. 'Cause honey, there was no crisis of confidence at Lookout Pass on your second day of skiing.

Halfway through day 2, your dad convinced you to ride up the big chair lift with all the grown-ups... all the way to the tippy-top of the mountain. I was on the chair in front of yours, so I could hear you yelling things like, "WE'RE SO FAR UP HERE, I BET WE COULD SEE PEG PEG'S HOUSE!"

Once you guys hopped off the lift at the top, your dad held your hand and explained the trail to you, and told you how you were going to get down, and assured you there was nothing to be scared of. 

Then, he skied all the way down that mountain with your skis in between his. That's how I learned that even with a 42-pound weight between his legs, your dad is still a faster skier than me.

In case anyone wants to see all this in motion, it looks a little something like this:

As always, I am proud of you for trying new things, and in awe of your dad for having unending patience and stamina.

By the way, your brother enjoys trips to the ski hill, too, but he's mostly in it for the hot chocolate and the naps in the corner.

Love,
Mom

P.S. The drive home is awfully pretty, too.