My son Kiko was 7 ½ months old the first – and last – time I
took him downhill skiing. We didn’t fall, we weren’t scared, we didn’t get
cold, or sunburned, or slip off the chairlift, or hit a tree. To the contrary,
the hours we spent skiing the slopes of Wachusett Mountain in Massachusetts
were some of the happiest in my memory. So why, you might ask, wouldn’t I want
to do it again? The answer has less to do with my skills, my skis, or my son
than with the other skiers on the slopes. What began as a recreational activity
for our family ended as a strange and somewhat alienating social experience in
which we seemingly became an object of attention and conversation on the
mountain. With bubbly excitement we started skiing at 10:30 AM. By 12:30 PM I
was weary of the experience and suggested to my husband that we call it quits
and head back to the car. Let me explain what happened…
It was a sunny morning in March 2009. The temps were up, the
snow conditions perfect. It was mid-week, meaning that the slopes were
relatively clear. We did our homework before by calling the resort and asking
if they allowed skiing with babies. The man we spoke to was enthusiastic,
saying, “No one ever asks us that. We think it’s really cool you want to bring
your baby skiing, do come!” Wow, I thought, such a warm welcome, how could we
possibly turn it down?

