You can always rely on your children...

... to say something mildly embarrassing, can't you?

We just returned from a week skiing.  Whilst the high point for me has to be watching my sons tearing down the mountain having the time of their lives, and the low point was realising on the first day, after the first run, that I can no longer keep up with either of them when they have boards strapped to their feet, one of the most disconcerting moments came courtesy of Boy #2.

He and I were heading down the mountain at the end of the afternoon, and found ourselves sharing a gondola with his ski teacher, a mid-20's Belgian who speaks 4 languages fluently.  As you do.  This guy - let's call him Julian (because that's his name) - told me how he spent a few weeks last summer in Moscow, in an attempt to improve his Russian.  (Because the Russians are coming, oh yes indeed.  At least, to the ski fields of the Alps, they are).

He told me how impressed he was with Moscow, and how much fun it is to party there in the summer.  He said how different it is to many places he had visited, and whilst we chatted about this, dropped in the comment that the girls there really go to a lot of trouble with their appearance, more so than he's used to back in western Europe.  He was amazed by the difference between some of the guys in their tracksuit bottoms and laid-back attitudes to clothing, and their girlfriends teetering along on their arms in high heels and - well, you get the picture.

I laughed.  And then, Boy #2 - probably trying to be supportive - said something along the lines of "You dress up when you go out too, don't you Mum?"  Well, yes, I do, I said.  When you're surrounded by people who make an effort, it seems rude not to yourself.  And then, addressing the other little boy from his class that Julian was taking back down the mountain, Boy #2 said  "And you know what type of dresses she wears when she goes out?  Sexy dresses..."

He's 8.  I'm not sure he even knows what the word 'sexy' means (we live in a cable tv-less house, which rather cuts out the opportunities for raunchy r&b type video clips), and he's probably mainly heard it on Psy's Gangnam Style.

Nevertheless, whilst Boy #2 may not know what the word means, Julian The Ski Teacher clearly did - and from the rather non-plussed expression on his face, it was not a word he would have immediately applied to the 47-year-old-no-make-up-wearing-rather-tired-and-a-bit-sweaty-after-a-day-on-the-slopes mother of one of his pupils in front of him...

Things you never know about blogging...

... until you've been doing it for longer than is perhaps wise.

#1 Your Significant Others will read your posts - and perhaps, just to wind you up, quote them back to you at inopportune moments. I give you Exhibit A, Your Honour.

The Potski Family are on holiday this week, skiing.  Halfway through what was quite a stressful morning of flat light, steep icy slopes, horizontal snow, and zero ski ability on my part due to not being able to see where the hell I was going, and wondering why on earth I had ever thought strapping two boards to my feet and pointing them downhill was a good idea, Husband said "You have snow on your moustache."  Longer term readers of this blog might recognise this as a direct quote from a blog post I wrote a couple of years back, about a similar incident.  

So there I was, stranded on a mountain-side, wondering how on earth I was going to get down it, and now - on top of all those insignifcant 'will I ever make it back to my children alive' worries I was dealing with - also wondering if a) the moustache/snow issue was in the fact the case, b) he was simply referring to my 2 year old blog post in an attempt to lighten the mood take my mind off the situation (in which case, why couldn't he just tell me a joke, for chrissake?) or c) both things were in fact true.

I suspect c). 

The Gallery; Landscapes

This post is a disgracefully late entry for Week 92 of Tara's Gallery - click here to see all the other fabulous entries.

Given that this week's prompt is 'Landscapes', and bearing in mind where I am this week, even though I'm 24 hours late on posting I couldn't possibly miss out on entering the Gallery.

No prizes for guessing for how the Potski family are spending our days - but I wonder, will you be able to work out where we're doing it?

Oh, OK. You want clues. Here they are;

• You don't need a visa if you're an EU citizen...
• ...but this country is not in the EU.
• The food is DELICIOUS.
• The locals are mostly hospitable.
• There are borders you don't want to cross.
• They produce their own wines, some of which are pretty good (and some of which - well, let's not go there).
• And obviously, you can ski. In fact, whilst it's not the most challenging area I've ever skied in, it more than makes up for that with some of the best snow and the shortest lift lines I've ever seen. And it's at an impressive height (the resort itself starts at 2200m), and has some of the quietest runs I've ever been on in my 18 years of skiing. (Mind you, it also has some of the craziest skiers. But then you can't have everything).

And that's it. So, where am I?

Tales from the slopes (in which I over-share about facial hair)

Six words from my beloved guaranteed to send me to the nearest beauty counter in search of cosmetic assistance:

'You've got snow on your moustache.'

For goodness' sake. That has to be one of the last things one needs to hear when trying to ski through a snow-storm, surely? For whilst, on the one hand, it is most certainly something one would prefer to know about (and which perhaps explains some of the strange looks I had been getting from skiers around me), it is rather off-putting to be trying to stay upright on skis with some semblance of expertise - in itself is something of a lost cause in my case - whilst simultaneously trying to surreptitiously keep one's upper lip clear of the biggest snow flakes I had ever seen.

I don't know who I thought I was kidding with the 'surreptitious' bit though. There's nothing surreptitious about wobbling precariously down a slope whilst raising your right hand - incidentally waving a 3 foot long bright blue ski pole in a sort of semaphore styley- and sweeping it across your face every 30 seconds or so. Why so frequently? Well, I'm amongst friends here (glances nervously from side to side) I hope, so I have to admit that I had rather forgotten to tend to those pesky rather-darker-than-they-should-be hairs under my nose in the weeks running up to our ski holiday. Normally I would have been fine - wax those little blighters out of existence the moment they appear is my usual modus operandi - but for some reason the hairs that had recently come through were quite light, not very noticeable, and so I had forgotten all about them.

All very well, and probably much better for one's skin, until the damn things turned in to some kind of sink tidy for snow.

And of course the kicker was that until the flakes started to melt - which they weren't about to do in -8degC or whatever it was - I didn't even know that they were there, what with their sitting very slightly above the skin. Instead, until Husband took pity on me and shared the dreadful news, I skied merrily and messily through said snow storm, congratulating myself on staying upright and wondering if - perhaps - I had finally acquired enough technique to attract the somewhat surprised attention of other skiers. All the time with my own white beer-foam-accessorised top lip - but without, sadly, the beer.

I've said it before and no doubt will again. My life? So glamorous, it hurts.

Always check, check, and check again...

...or in other words, don't get blindly on ski lift without checking where it goes first.

We just got back from our week skiing and bless me father, for I have sinned.

I took my seven and five year old sons down a red run.

What the ?

As you can tell, we've come a long way baby from the post I wrote about trying to get Boy #2 to master a 'pizza slice' on the slopes; God help me, he can do 'chips' as well now (which for the uninitiated means pointing your skis straight down the slope). And luckily, I had re-found my skiing mojo after the lesson from a friend that I mentioned in the same post. However, that still doesn't excuse our adventure (I'm calling it an 'adventure', but I'm guessing you'll understand by that I mean 'incredibly stupid escapade') on Saturday afternoon, when the Potty Family got on the wrong ski lift and ended up at the top of Mount Death.

I can only count my blessings that a) the weather was fabulous, meaning we could actually see the slope properly b) there was plenty of recently fallen soft snow to act as a landing pad (not that it proved necessary), c) Husband was with us and able to carry Boy #2 down the one part of the slope that proved too much for him and d) we were also with a good friend and her 5 year old son, and who - also being a very good skier - with her matter-of-fact demeanour and calm resolution not to be phased by the situation, helped me to keep my cool and to ski Boy #1 down whilst Husband dealt with Boy #2.

With the exception of the carrying incident the Boys were admirably relaxed about their 'adventure' (see? That word again), to the extent that I am now seriously considering not ever taking them skiing again because give it two years and there will be no stopping them. I'll be reduced to being the anxious mum wringing my hands at the bottom of the double black diamond slopes as they whoop their way carelessly down them, no doubt.

I should also say that the resort we were staying in was rather namby-pamby with their classifications of degrees of difficulty; most of the red slopes would have been labelled blue in France, for example.

But enough excuses, because despite the fact that we actually had fun whilst doing this, Christ, I never want to do that again.

Pride, falls, and snow in your face

Well, that'll learn me.

Not long ago I wrote a post where I mentioned that I felt I had - after 15-odd years of throwing myself down the side of a mountain - at least partially mastered the art of downhill skiing.

Pride comes before a fall, however, (or in my case, any number of them), and it seems that between now and 4 weeks ago I lost all memories of how to ski in anything other than a style which could most aptly be described as 'headless chicken'.

Perhaps it's because on this trip I have been preoccupied with encouraging Boy #2 to master the 'pizza slice' (aka 'snow plough stop' to anyone over the age of 6), and jollying him along when he tells me he hates skiing, hates Austria, hates his teacher, and hates me for leaving him there. Only to have a great time the moment my back is turned, obviously (I know this to be the case because I have taken to skulking behind other parents like a mad woman, using them as human shields between him and I so that he thinks I've gone when in fact I'm keeping a weather eye...)

Or perhaps it's because I have a bit of mental block about skiing in Austria based on a spectacularly unsuccessful trip here a few years back where the pistes where poorly groomed and I tangled more than once with an inexpert snow-boarder. Which is ridiculous, because my skiing has improved since then and the resort where I'm staying has some of the widest, most forgiving runs I've ever seen, and plenty of fresh snow on which to turn and - of course - fall.

Whatever the reason, however, things haven't been going so well for me on the slopes and I think that the following exchange between Husband and I yesterday probably illustrates how frustrated I was feeling about the whole thing.

I had just fallen over. Again.

Husband: "Come on, cheer up. It's funny really. You've got to laugh!"

I grimaced and muttered, but didn't say much. If, however, marital harmony were less important to me I suspect that I might have said the following:

"No, actually, I don't. I'm 44 years old and after 15 years at the this game, I still don't know how to fucking ski. My 7 year old son can now ski faster than me, and even my 5 year old son has less fear of falling than me. Tell me, what - exactly - is funny about that?"

Lucky I'm not single, or I think I might have to take 'GSOH' off my list of personal traits...

Note: Since that exchange a friend who is both a spectacularly good skier and spectacularly patient and who just happens to be staying in the same resort took me under his wing and reminded me of all things I've learned - and forgotten - in various ski classes over the years. Things are now much better. And there are unsubstantiated rumours that I may even be recovering my sense of humour.

The difference between...

...skiing holidays pre and post children. (I thought I might lighten the mood after yesterday...)

Pre Children

• You can ski all day
• It doesn't matter if you wake up with a hangover, you can take as long as you want to get out of bed and even kid yourself that it's not the excess of alcohol curdling your brain, just your body reacting to the altitude
• Lunch can be a long, leisurely affair on the side of the mountain, and may even - oh, those far-off halcyon days - be accompanied by wine
• Vin chaud/gluhwine features as one of your of your five a day (What? It - sometimes - comes with fruit in the top. That qualifies in my book)
• If you're in a relationship (or - I'm told - sometimes even if not), you may even get to partake of spontaneous nooky in the afternoon when everyone else is out on the slopes
• You're only paying for yourself, so whilst skiing is never a cheap holiday, it doesn't break the bank
• You get to experience the Apres-Ski to the full.
• Dancing in ski boots in some badly lit slippery-wooden floored bar is good clean fun...
• Did I mention you can ski all day?

Post children

• Ski all day? You count yourself lucky if you manage an hour in the morning between the drop-off of weeping children and the collection of the ski-demons they have morphed into during your 2 hour absence
• Hangover? Fat chance. Not only are you rarely awake long enough in the evening to down more than half a glass of wine, but the prospect of dealing with 2 squirming children unwilling to get into their ski clothes and traipse up the road to their lessons, whilst definitely enough to drive you to drink, is also enough to make you realise that adding a muzzy head to the mix would be a very bad idea indeed...
• Lunch is a cling-film wrapped squashed ham sandwich discarded by your child after you pick them up from their ski lesson. They haven't eaten it as they are too full from snacking on all the biscuits and chocolate you used as bribes to persuade them to stay at their lesson in the first place.
• Vin chaud (and accompanying fruit) is off the menu; you need a clear head to deal with your mini-menace children on the slopes as they simply point their skis down hill and go, ignoring your increasingly frantic pleas to 'put in a turn, for chrissake!' as you try desperately to keep up with them. If you both make it down the slope without ending up in the back of one of those first aid sleighs you see being transported down the mountain, you consider the experience a success.
• Nooky? I'm not even going to dignify that suggestion with further comment.
• By the time you've forked out for your children's ski hire, boot hire, helmet hire, thermal underwear, goggles, lessons, lift pass, and the badge they get when they finish the course (yes, you do have to pay for that), your second mortgage may need to be increased. And that's before you even think about the ruinously expensive plates of spaghetti bolognese they hoover up in the mountain side restaurants when they decide that they are hungry after their lesson after all. (Note to self - always carry extra squashed cling-film-wrapped ham sandwiches for such emergencies in the future...)
• Apres ski? I've heard of it, but...

A piste too far

Boy #1 is continuing to improve his skills on the slopes (after making a couple of runs with him this afternoon, Husband commented breathlessly that 'we have created a monster') but unsurprisingly, not everyone in the Potski family is toeing the party line on the 'loving skiing' front.

Yesterday, Boy #2 and I had the following conversation after I picked him up from ski school;

Me: "So, how was your ski lesson today?"

Boy #2: "OK. I only cried a little bit."

Me (heart sinking, but trying to jolly him along): "Right... so did you actually ski at all?"

Boy #2: "Yes. Yes! I skied through the arch. And... I rang the bell!" (There is a sleigh bell suspended on a plastic arch which the children are encouraged to ring as they pass underneath it. This requires them to be standing up on their skis rather than messing around on the ground or even - as has been the case more than once this week - playing inside in the nursery, so this news was something to be celebrated).

Me: "Fantastic! So when you go back tomorrow, you can do that again!"

Boy #2: "Well... no."

Me: "No?"

Boy #2: "No. I can ski now. I know how to do it. So, that's that."

Me: "What do you mean, 'that's that' ?"

Boy #2: "Well, now I know how to ski. So I don't have to go back again."

Ah well - there's always next year.

Note: He did go back. And even appears to be enjoying it - despite an unfortunate collision with both parents on the ski slopes this afternoon... (the only thing hurt was our pride, you'll be pleased to hear).

What a difference...

...2 days make.


Sunday morning.

We're on holiday - skiing - in France. We drop Boy #1 off at his first lesson at Ecole de Ski Francais, in the hope that he can learn just how much fun it is to encase your legs in what feels like cement, strap a couple of bendy boards to your feet, and go against all your natural instincts to take them straight off again, instead pushing yourself off down a slope of icy coldness to what seems like (the first time you do it) certain death.

The drop-off does not go well. There are tears, tantrums, and Husband and I are seriously questioning whether our older son will ever 'get' the fun (because obviously, that's what it is) in skiing.


Tuesday morning.

I join Boy #1 half way through his third lesson to supervise break-time whilst their teacher takes some of his other pupils back down the mountain to meet their parents. The daughter of the family we are on holiday with - and who is also joining Boy #1 in ski school - is adamant that she has had enough for the day and that she wants to go home too. Boy #1, on the other hand, decides that perhaps a little bit longer wouldn't hurt, and manages to persuade her otherwise.

I look on, amazed, as 15 minutes later the barely-shaving-yet 19 year old teacher takes them both up the moutain and skis down an intermediate track with them. Boy #1 is skiing without poles and putting in perfect turns as he goes down the slope behind him, making little jumps on command and snow-ploughing to a stop when required.

He's having the time of his life, and I'm not sure I've ever been prouder; not because he's doing so well (although he is), but because Boy #1 has overcome his perfectly natural and understandable lack of confidence in an alien environment, has felt the fear, and has done it anyway.

In the paradox that is motherhood, of course, this gives me mixed feelings. He's growing up. This is amazing, wonderful, and a joy to behold. And a little bit scary, too; every step he takes - with me cheering him on from the sidelines - makes his obvious needs for me less. So as he learns to let go, I have to learn to let go too...