Ever since we procured Little Boy’s United States passport way back in September in anticipation of our biannual Christmas/New Years skiing trip to the French Alps with Mr. P’s family, he has been asking incessantly when we would be going on the airplane. I provided as much visual information about the trip as I could: showing him pictures of his cousins and other people he would meet, playing YouTube videos of little kids in skiing school, and emphasizing that we would be going on the airplane and returning home together. His focus was stuck on the passport, and when we finally boarded the first plane on our journey, he expressed concern that we were not “reading the airplane book.” And then I realized he thought the intended purpose of the passport was as reading material for the airplane, so we flipped through it and looked at the watermarked illustrations of idealized Americana: bears, eagles, flags, guns, the whatnot. And he seemed unfulfilled by this, so I slipped on his earphones and dialed up the Smurfs movie.
In the days before we left, I told someone it was Little Boy’s “first big airplane trip” before remembering, duh, the hellish 17-hour flight from Addis Ababa to Washington DC followed by the never-ending 8-hour layover. Little Boy is a seasoned intercontinental traveler; after that ordeal, a 6-hour flight to Amsterdam followed by a 90-minute flight to Lyon followed by a 2-hour bus ride to Aime la Plagne seemed downright jaunty, even to me. We weathered the tedium with Mr. P’s new Motorola tablet, loaded with kid-friendly apps. And on the plane, Little Boy dutifully read all of the seat pocket literature. “Mommy, look! Airplane in the water!” he exclaimed, pointing at the emergency evacuation card that showed how to exit the airplane should it be floating peacefully and intact on the water. “This airplane going in the water?” Um, let’s watch the Smurfs movie again.
Layover in Amsterdam
We arrived to our condo on Christmas Eve and survived the rest of the day in a haze of sleep-deprived holiday cheer. Little Boy met one of his cousins, a 5-year old British boy who was sooo excited to suddenly have a cousin to conspire with. It was love at first sight (the honeymoon was short, as mutual jealousy and arguments over sharing toys soon set in) and when we walked to the apartment where we would open presents, they held hands and smiled shyly at one another. After having a lovely meal of some roasted fowl, we returned to our condo for a long sleep. On Christmas day, Little Boy hung out at his grandparent’s place while Mr. P and I went XC skiing; we returned to take Little Boy sledding on the hill behind the condo.
Smiles while Sledding
Sledding with Cousin
The next day was warm and sunny, so Mr. P and I decided to be a little selfish and go Alpine skiing by ourselves for much of the day. It was an amazing day. Amazing! When we returned, we suited up Little Boy and took him to his first day of ski school. He was in a class with 5-6 other young newbies.
Ski School
Our worst fear was that Little Boy wouldn’t like skiing, that he would shirk from snow and the cold, that he would dislike being bundled up in heavy clothes and clad in unwieldy boots, that he wouldn’t try to learn. But of course, this is Little Boy, who I’m beginning to think is physically gifted. He learned to ride a two-wheel bike (albeit with training wheels) in a day and shows such sidewalk prowess that strangers express amazement to me. He jumped into a swimming pool with no hesitation and now, after near-weekly trips to the pool with Mommy and/or Daddy (and no formal lessons) is beginning to swim unaided. He has such a scorching left-foot kick that I’m certain he will star in the local kindergarten soccer league. And wrestling, wow! It can take me up to ten minutes to put on his pajamas if he is determined not to let me.
Adoring motherspeak aside, it should not have surprised us that, not only did he love skiing, he was darn good at it. He barely wobbled and understood instinctively how to stand to maintain his balance. By the second day, he was doing snowplows. On day four, his teacher informally declared Little Boy to be the “champion” and the other parents were grilling me about how old he was (years and months).
Going Up (during a sledding break, hence no skis)
Ski School
Head of the Class (with instructor)
Graduation Day
Getting his "panda" medal
Skiing school has a dual purpose, of course: to teach skiing, and to babysit. We would go skiing with friends and family and then hurry back to pick up Little Boy. Literally pick him up, as he had great difficulty walking in his boots. We probably got more exercise from carrying Little Boy through the village (in addition to our own skis and boots) as we did from skiing. Some mornings, we would take Little Boy up the mountain for a few ski runs (since we own property in the village, kids under 6 ski for free). He loved, loved skiing with us, and by the end of the week he was doing snowplow turns down the trails.
In the telecabin
Mr. P on XC Skiis with Little Boy
When we weren’t skiing, we were usually eating and hanging out with family and friends. New Year’s Eve was a highlight, as always!
New Year's Eve -- la traditionnelle descente aux flambeaux (note torch-bearing skiers in the background)
Descente aux flambeaux -- time for the free vin chaud!
New Year's Eve Aperitif
Little Boy loooves foie gras and smoked salmon
The only picture of me from the whole damn vacation
HAPPY New Year! (Note cousin attacking Mr. P in background)
The 10 days flew by, and we reluctantly packed up and returned home. Little Boy is now asking incessantly when we’re going skiing again, and we’ll have to introduce to the bleak New England skiing scene soon — where snow is either ice or, like this year, nonexistent.
In the Village
Ah, XC Skiing in the Alps
