“Let’s go check out Crystal Mountain today!” I said. “Okay,” said the Finn. Or I could’ve stabbed myself in the eye with a pencil and had the same amount of fun. Why did we think taking a five year old and two year old to a ski resort would be enjoyable? I blame it on the third cup of coffee I was throwing back. I was high on caffeine and unattainable dreams. I was yearning for an adventure.
I dress the kids and throw a shit ton (yes, that’s an exact amount) of snacks into my mom-bag. You know the one. Purchased from a thirty-one party with a trendy chevron pattern and monogrammed “M” on it. I mean how else do middle class moms tote their stuff around?
I put the bag in the car, and come back three minutes later to find Little Finn running around naked throwing his snow boots at the dogs. Finn Girl is sobbing in a heap on the floor wailing that her socks don’t fit and socks will never fit her correctly. My dear husband is sending work emails while ignoring the kids who are on the verge of revolting against clothing. I quickly debate how long I could survive on the snacks I just threw in the car if I quietly slip out the back door and run away.
The tears have dried up by the time arrive at Crystal Mountain 90 minutes later. It’s covered in a perfectly even, thin blanket of snow. It’s like a salt shaker shook the same amount of snow on each pine tree branch. It reminds me of winter in Finland.
Twenty minutes and $50 later we’re on the gondola chugging up the mountain. The snow coats the trees thicker the further up we go. We stop at the top and step out to see Mt. Rainier boldly sticking her peak out above the clouds. Layers of mountains surround her. Each covered in varying amounts of snow and sharp jutting edges. I’m hypnotized by the scenery. Completely unaware that I’m blocking the path to the slopes until I’m hit in the shin by a snowboard.
Oh yeah, this is a ski resort. You’d think I’d learned to ski after spending almost 10 years with a guy who grew up competitively downhill skiing and cross country skiing, but alas, I haven’t. I can cross country ski on flat surfaces. That’s it.
The kids make snow angels and eat snow from a mom-approved clean pile. Then the Finn hits our daughter in the face with a snowball. In front of the restaurant that’s at the top of the mountain. Awesome. The adults in the restaurant laugh while Finn Girl breaks down in tears and says she’s ready to go. I tried to snap a quick family photo, but this is what you get. Little Finn face down in the snow crying.
I throw back a latte on the way home and my caffeinated dreams take over. Maybe next time I’ll take ski lessons and we can all go skiing as a family. Or maybe the kids can take ski lessons and I’ll sit in the lodge with a drink. Yes, that sounds more like it.
The Finn and I 