by Mel (Fri Jan 08, 2010)
Did you go skiing before you had children? Me too. Happy gatherings of
like-minded friends who were ready to party, help with the cooking, could
remain upright on skis, and would schuss with a hangover. Those holidays were
hard on the legs and the liver, but weren't they so much fun?
Fast forward many years and someone said to me, ‘You should get your kids
skiing when they're young.' Before someone more sane could say, ‘What the hell
are you thinking? Four kids under 10 and you want to go skiing?' I had booked
the chalet.
I liaised directly with the German chalet owner, having translated the
property details with Google Translate. Somehow Google Translate missed out the
part about the chalet being up a steep, hairpin track, accessible only by a
custom-built Hummer with spiked wheels. It took 3 hours to schlep the contents
of the car (including the full grocery shop I'd cleverly done in advance) up
the 500 vertical metres to the chalet. Still, it couldn't get worse, right?
Why, oh why, do those families who have skied with kids not broadcast the
truth? Why do they not post on every
parenting forum the simple message,
‘Got young kids? Don't go skiing with them, it is a living hell'?
It turns out that by going skiing with kids, you enter a sub-world of
horror that was completely invisible when you skied in those hedonistic,
pre-kid days.
Frozen, shivering youngsters incapable of getting their boots on and
howling all the while. Big kids hurling themselves to the ground, screaming and
shouting like toddlers. Adults, sickened by the daily haemorrhage of cash (lift passes, lunch in the resort, chocolate bribes)
determinedly frog marching their kids to a harassed-looking ski instructor. Children
falling face-first into the snow every day for three hours, mildly frostbitten,
thoroughly miserable and mewling pitifully for Mummy and Daddy to take them
home.
It's amazing how humans can change when tortured. Within the space of a week
I morphed from a hands-on, caring Mum to a snarling, determined, heartless
bitch who was going to ski at all costs. Even if that meant dumping half her
children in the crèche for the afternoon, when they refused to ski. And at the
end of each long, stressful day, we climbed into the car, drove down the
mountain, and then pointed at our chalet high up on a hill. Give credit where
it's due, those tiny, exhausted beings trudged up day after day, with only
minimal whingeing.
There was only one day in 7 that I didn't cry out of sheer, bloody,
'this is so crap' misery. Every evening, before even removing my boots I swigged
down a beer in one gulp. That was in addition to the bottle of wine I'd had to
inhale at lunch just to get through the afternoon.
And yet, and yet, by the end of the week, two of my children could do it
and we were able to ski together. The excitement and pride on their faces as
they yelled, ‘Watch me! Watch me!' went a long way to cancelling out the events
of the previous 6 days. The two younger ones affirmed that there had been some
high points to counteract the lows; they'd enjoyed sledging and hot chocolate,
and next year could they please just go to the warm crèche and watch telly?
Would there be a next year? We debated long and hard. We drew up a list
of lessons learned and must-haves for future ski holidays. Number one being
‘Choose accommodation that is accessible without crampons.' With rose-tinted
hindsight we all began to speak fondly of the holiday, even the part where one
of my children, just metres from the chalet, peed in their only ski suit. We
smiled at the photos of the beautiful scenery and our happy children sledging
(that was on the first day before they knew what was expected of them).
So, ignoring the voice of reason screaming in my head, I've booked
again. I'm assured by the (English) owner that our accommodation is a stone's
throw from the ski lifts. I'm assured by the children that they'll try really
hard this time; absolutely no whingeing and no pissing in their ski suits.
Well, it couldn't be worse than last year, right?
