So, snow skiing isn’t really my thing.

Let’s face it, I grew up in the south. The closest I came to being a good snow skier was when I dated a guy who was a great skier. He was born in Switzerland, took ski trips to Vermont and Utah, blah, blah, blah.  Water skiing is more my thing.

But here I am, raising kids in the land of cold and snow, so from time to time you’ll find me on the slopes.  I cheer them on as they brave the steep hills then slowly make my way towards the ones for smaller children. They’re more my speed, you know?

So it was that yesterday morning, I dragged myself out of bed way too early—and the kids, too—and headed north. (My husband, Starbucks in hand, was his usual, chipper, early-morning self.)

Me? I was a grumpy bear.

I was grumpy because I was awake, grumpy because it’s a complete hassle getting everyone into gear, and grumpy because I’m just not that good.

When we finally got out there, it took a good hour for me to shake off the grumpies.  And then? Then it was awesome!  Around 5:00 my husband suggested that maybe we should pack up for the day. But I wasn’t ready.  Back out we went, the kids flying down hills I’ll never ski, and me feeling braver, and more relaxed, on the easier hills.

Maybe an old dog can learn new tricks.