at least twenty other under-13s are either whining or weeping about having to be here at all.
That's what I told myself, anyway, as for the third time that morning I took Helen by the unmittened hand (we brought the Wrong Gloves, the ones to which frostbite is preferable) and led her away from the baby-bunny slope ("I want to go hooooome," cried one small person as we trudged by), through the outdoor lunch tables at the lodge ("My booooots huuuurt," wept someone else), past the basement lockers ("I don't WAAAANT to skiiii"), and into the bathrooms ("WAAAAAAH"). Which made my own temporarily non-weeping child seem positively ski-demonish by comparison. Granted, she did very little skiing, and what she did involved holding a non-skiied grownup's hand at all times--but still! She wasn't crying! Most of the time!
Overall, though, our ski weekend went pretty well. Silas and his cousin actually went on the lift several times in a row, and for the first time since Si started going on the lift I wasn't terrified the whole time. It was even...kind of fun, skiing with him. He skied rakkishly under signs, between trees, and up and down those little pathways alongside the catwalk. I can see that soon I will be terrified by his skiing in a totally new way--the way we sort of signed on for, when we first started teaching him to ski.
I can hardly wait.