College Visits Part 3: Touring In a Winter Wonderland

This past weekend, we went off for our first ski trip of the season. The drive up to Vermont was long and cold and boring and unpleasant. But, it was a veritable picnic compared with what we woke up to Saturday. Freezing rain. Black ice. In the words of Seinfeld's soup nazi:

"No ski for you!"

The good news is that I would have company all day. The bad news? I would have company all day.

I gave up schussing several years ago. Even in the finest conditions, I find it scary, expensive, scary, cold, scary, uncomfortable, and scary. (Did I mention scary?) So, you might think that ski trips would be dull, right? Wrong! As soon as I wave my husband and teenage daughter off to the mountain, the fun begins. Yoga at the resort's spa (with an extremely handsome instructor), a nice sauna or hot tub, steaming cups of coffee, an afghan (blanket, not canine) and some book I've longed to read but haven't found the time. If I feel like it, I meet the intrepid athletes for lunch at the base lodge restaurant. If I feel like it, I browse some of the boutiques in the village. If I feel like it, I go for a long walk through the woods.

I say, "if I feel like it," because, essentially, I don't have to do anything unless I feel like it. Heaven.

So, not this trip. We toasted bagels and hung out with our friends until late morning, catching up and sharing funny things we found online. (Between the four adults and one teen, we had five smart phones, two ipads and three laptops.) Then we piled into an SUV and headed north for lunch and shopping.

After some "artisanal" pizza (if that's not the most overused word of the century, I don't know what is), we drove into Burlington. With one college-bound teenager in the car and two more back home (our friends have twin boys), we decided to look at University of Vermont.

If you've been paying attention, dear reader, it won't surprise you that our first stop was the UVM Equine Center. My daughter has already toured the enormous UKY and the tiny Otterbein. With nearly 13,000 students, UVM was right in the middle. In fact, if Goldilocks visited the three schools, she might declare it to be "just right."

This particular Mamma Bear was pleased to see how enthusiastic her cub was. I know it's her decision, not mine. I know that Kentucky and Ohio are only a few hours away by plane. But, the prospect of my daughter staying in New England, attending a school I can actually drive to, and maybe even joining us for future ski trips ... well, can you blame me for smiling?

The equine center was gorgeous, and the two work-study students we ran into were informative and welcoming. They suggested we stop by the student center too. I could tell that my daughter was imagining herself there. I tried not to gush too much.

We spent the bulk of the afternoon in downtown Burlington. It's a great little city with shops and pubs, coffee and Ben & Jerry's ice cream. My daughter raided the local Urban Outfitters, our friends looked at ski jackets, and I bought a hippy-chick batik skirt (when in Rome ...). Again, I could tell my daughter was projecting how it would feel to live near this college town. Again, I held my peace.

On Sunday morning, the sun came out. It was too late to ski, so my girlfriend and I ran into the picturesque town of Warren for some quick shopping. We both found great things on sale, and as we were paying, the clerk overheard us talking about the impromptu college visit.

"You never really get over it," she confided. "Mine is ... well, she's 31 now. But I still remember how hard it was. No one really warns you, and you're supposed to keep your chin up. But, you never get over it. Then they come back and they're an adult."

My friend, nodded and I knew she was thinking of her boys waiting back at home. "I know I'll cry every day," she said.

I agreed, and mentioned the end of a wonderful movie, Enough Said. At the airport, as they watch their daughter leave for school, two parents (amicably divorced, but that's a different part of the story) comfort each other: "We made a good person."

I think we've made a good person too. And, somehow I'll survive this parting that's ahead. It occurred to me, as it often does, that having a child is the greatest act of faith. 

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com. 

The Tween In-Between

We're on another ski trip. What this means, per usual, is that my daughter and my husband are enjoying the ski slopes with our friends while I'm enjoying the peace and quiet of our rented ski house.

This morning, my daughter complained that her father is paying more attention to our friends' daughter than he is to her. He's tickling the younger girl, laughing at her fourth-grade jokes, teasing her with affectionate silly nicknames.

Quite frankly, my daughter is jealous.

I listened to her sympathetically and then I pointed out that her dad is really in a no-win situation, one that she herself created for him. He's between a rock and a hard place because if he teases and tickles his own daughter, she complains that he's treating her like a little kid. If he refrains from this activity, her feelings are hurt.

"You have to decide what you want," I told her.

My daughter heard me (which is in itself a rather unusual circumstance). She nodded knowingly and as she headed back downstairs sadly said, "I know. I'm too young for half the things I want and too old for the other half."

There's a saying about tweens: they're "Too old for toys; too young for boys." That's cute. But, the reality is much more complicated. My daughter and her friends are walking contradictions. They long for what they imagine were "the good old days." Easy friendships, less cliques, less lunchtime politics, less homework. At the same time, they are impatient for independence and the fantastic liberty they imagine comes with adulthood.

No rules, no limits, no curfews. Being your own boss. Never never never having to do anything, not one single solitary thing, you don't want to do.

Hey, sign me up.

I try to relate; I do. My daughter really is caught between little girlhood and grown womanhood. Her issues are intensely real to her even if I'm tempted to pooh-pooh them. When I point out that her perceived "glory days" of seventh grade weren't all that glorious, or try to tell her that with adult freedoms come adult responsibilities, she rolls her eyes, she walks away. In her book, it's just another example of my not getting it.

These are the times I try to remember what it was like to be in eighth grade myself. It was a rather awkward period if the pictures I have are any indication. I was growing out a Dorothy Hamill haircut; I was a little bit chubby. I definitely didn't know what to do with myself. My parents were completely clueless about what I was going through, about parenting, about everything. (Funny how much wiser they became as I got older. Hmmmm.) I couldn't wait to go to college, get a job, have my own apartment, start my life.

It's tempting to romanticize your youth. But, in reality, those junior high years were downright difficult. Sure, there were some girls who seemed to have it all: cool clothes, popularity, clear skin, good grades, even ... a boyfriend (gasp!). But, I believe one of two things is true. Either they were consummate actresses and despite their smooth exteriors, they were suffering the same doubts and dramas we all were. Or, they really did have it all and how sad that must be because if you peak at fourteen where do you go from there?

Really, I ask you.

(Despite rumors to the contrary, heading into my fifth decade, I myself haven't peaked yet, which gives me something to look forward to.)

Here's my prediction for this afternoon. The skiers will return, wiped out in a happy way, rosy-cheeked with lots of stories to tell. My daughter will have forgotten this morning's hurt feelings and will be excited to tell me all about the black diamonds and moguls she and her father (both accomplished and fearless skiers) tackled. Somehow, the ups and downs together at a ski resort seem to wipe away the ups and downs they have in day-to-day life.

My hope is that when the terrible tweens are behind us, they will still have this exhilarating activity to share together ... and with me.

The Ski Amigos

I have a confession to make. I am not an "outdoorswoman."

I have another confession to make. I don't care.

That said, we always want our offspring to experience — if not, excel at — the things that we missed out on. This is how I feel about skiing.

I grew up in the "Big Apple." There was always plenty to do — theatre, music, museums. But, skiing wasn't high on the list. In fact, until I was 23, I had only gone on a single ill-fated high school ski trip. One of my best friends actually lost a ski while she was on the lift; it fell down into the thick woods below. She had to walk down the length of the mountain, and we distracted the science teacher who had brought us while she slipped her lone ski under the bus and checked her name off the rental list before heading back to the city. (Uh ... what's the statute of limitations on missing ski equipment?)

After I graduated from college, I briefly dated a medical student who was a champion skier and coached the Connecticut Special Olympics ski team. He was understandably patient with me, but my performance on the trails was pretty pitiful. A couple of boyfriends later, my now husband had more success. I was so in love that I conquered my fear of speed, gravity and broken bones. We skied every winter until one year when I felt a little too queasy to hit the slopes.

"I think I have food poisoning," I told the other women at the ski house.

"We think you're pregnant," they told me. They were right.

Our trips to Vermont continued after we had the baby. In fact, there are adorable pictures of our daughter and our friends' twin sons in matching footsie pajamas communing on the carpet at the ski house. (The kind of pictures that will make excellent blackmail material someday.) But, I was always too busy to go back to skiing myself. Often, I brought work with me, but I also enjoyed afternoon hikes, shopping, and relaxing by the fire with a book and a glass of wine.

My daughter started ski school at three years old. She was a Sugarbush "Mini Bear," and from day one, she was absolutely fearless. She couldn't wait to get on the slopes. She couldn't wait to start using poles. She couldn't wait to try moguls and black diamonds. Today, she schusses down the mountain alongside (or sometimes in front of!) her father. If I go to meet them for lunch, I watch her with great pride (and my heart in my throat).

A couple of years ago, my daughter asked me to try skiing again. I think she loved it so much that she felt bad that I was missing something. So, I signed up for a lesson. It was less than a success. Let's just say that it wasn't like riding a bicycle. I felt cold; I felt scared. And, I had spent a lot (a lot!) of money to feel that way. My ski days were, I'm afraid, over.

Fast forward. This weekend, true to form, my family is enjoying the great outdoors while I sit in our cozy chalet. (It's only ten a.m., so I'm not imbibing in vino yet, but I'm enjoying a cup of coffee and all my other favorite ski weekend activities.) Music playing, a gorgeous view of the mountain, many months of New Yorker magazines to catch up on. No cell phone. No email. Nice!

When the skiers are finished for the day (we're here with another family who have one beautiful daughter older than mine and an adorable one younger), I'll join them for some après ski snacks — maybe fondue at the mountain's French bistro or chips and salsa at the Mexican place across the road. Y'know, you build up quite an appetite skiing (or, in my case, reading and relaxing).

I definitely don't miss skiing, but I definitely would miss these weekends. I'm happy that my daughter has something special that she shares with her father. I'm pleased that she is strong and fit and courageous. I'm glad that she has a healthy hobby that she can enjoy throughout her life.

And, I can't wait to hear about it all when she's done.