We went skiing again. The kids had a five-day weekend and we left directly from school on Friday, my tiny car packed with all our gear. We’ve been home a day and already I am pining for the mountains again.
This time we stayed in a great little rifugio, which the Italians are always translating as “mountain hut”, ha! It’s a small, informal restaurant/bar/hotel, usually family-run, relatively inexpensive, and you are expected to dig your own car out when it snows, which it did.
Luckily I didn’t have to shovel any snow because the boys’ dad came with us again, and although he only stayed for the first few days, those were the days that it snowed.
When my babies were small, or tiny embryos, one of my most frequently recurring fantasies was that, when they were older, our family would ski and hike and do mountain sports together like the models posing as happy families in advertisements for mountain sports equipment. That these fantasies came true despite everything is one of the greatest joys of my small, ordinary life.
There will be a moment when, in the afternoon, we are skiing back to the peak where we began our day, and it is quiet; the only sound is the soft silence of the snow. Then my boys come around the bend and we continue on together. The joy just then inside me is bigger than the giant sky above.