By Lisa T. Bergren

I open one eye to glance at the clock, catch a glimpse of blue sky and stifle a groan. No excuses. I shut my eye, shoring up for what’s ahead. I should be happy for this day, grateful. A million other mamas would gladly be in my shoes, ensconced in a ski condo along the slopes of a Colorado resort. But frankly, I’d rather pull the covers over my head, sleep another hour, then settle into the comfy living room chair with a cup of java and a good book. I think of a friend, who dutifully drives his boys up to the mountains to ski every weekend, sends them off, then hangs out in a warm, leather lodge chair by the fire and his latest novel.

I sigh. That sounds delicious, right now.

Alas, the kids are bouncing off the walls next door, spun up on the idea of a day of skiing. I remind myself that I love the family time—the exhilaration of reaching the top of the mountain, the view that reaches a hundred miles across white, glistening peaks, the pleasure of seeing my kids setting off to conquer the slopes. But before that, we have to ingest enough carbs and protein to make it through the morning, wrestle on layers of clothes, make sure everyone’s gone potty, locate missing gloves and scarves and hats, attach ungodly expensive tickets to coats, and then force our feet into the most uncomfortable plastic sheathes possible. It’s a lot of work under the guise of fun.

I wonder why I do it. There are a million other ways for us to spend our entertainment dollars. Other, warmer, cheaper, more comfortable methods. I didn’t marry a skier. I made him into one. And I’ve carefully molded each of my children into loving the sport, just as I was molded.

I grew up skiing every winter in Montana, on the Canadian border. It was the kind of cold, raw, ‘70s skiing that lives long in one’s memory. We’d tie handkerchiefs across our faces and our breath would freeze them into frost-starched sheets. Ice crystals would cling to our eyebrows and lashes. But as a kid, the adventure of exploring a foreign environment populated by snow ghosts—trees so burdened by snow pack they sagged leeward—finding bumpy trails in and through sapphire forests, reaching bottom to the reward of steaming hot chocolate…formed some of my happiest childhood memories.

Copper Mountain Ski Vacation, Colorado from theworldiscalling.com on Vimeo.

And I suppose that is why I press on today—I want my children to gain from similar memories and experiences. The joy of exploration. Pride in staying on one’s skis. Victory in making it down a challenging slope. Strength in muscling through adverse conditions. Tenacity in getting up after a fall.

I chuckle to myself, thinking it through. Those are life lessons, not just lessons to make us better skiers. It’s worth it.

So I shove away the mental calculations of how much money we’re spending on this—it’s already been budgeted. If I continue to lament it, I’ll rob myself of what’s been purchased. I review each family member and wrap a scarf around a neck here, pull a glove more securely on there. And then I wrestle on boots that seem to have a personal vendetta against my feet, clamp down buckles I deem more apropos for astronauts than fun seekers, and smile.

I’m ready for launch, and so is my family. “Let’s go,” I say.

There is no trepidation. Only smiles.

Click HERE to read our trip report on our ski vacation to Copper Mountain, Colorado.

Click HERE to read our teen’s report on our ski trip.

Click HERE to read about tubing at the Coca Cola tubing hill, at Copper Mountain.

Click HERE to read about skiing in Montana at a small “resort” we love.

Why do you ski? Or not? And more importantly, have you ever found a pair of decent ski boots that don’t kill your feet? Please comment below.