I grew up in the Pacific Northwest, where it is perfectly normal for people to report to work on Monday with tales of their extreme weekends—skiing, rock-climbing, kayaking, squirrel rodeo. Well, maybe not that last one, but only because the environmentalists would object that it’s demeaning to squirrels to make them wear chaps.

Anyway, when I was a kid, most people I knew were skiers. Even my dad knew how, and as the family lore went, that’s how he broke his ankle, which to this day is a bit on the dodgy side because he soaked the cast off rather than wear it for the prescribed length of time.

(Sort of embarrassing moment: During back-to-school-night event at my middle school, Dad reinjured his ankle while going up the stairs. Parents! Try not to break a leg at school! Really, it would be better if you farted audibly because no teachers would want to ask you about that the next day.)

My mom promised we’d learn to ski when we started high school, but that didn’t happen for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is how much it would have cost to outfit five kids in gear. Some of my more enterprising siblings figured out ways to learn, but I am clumsy and don’t particularly enjoy landing on my face at great speeds, or even at slow speeds.

So, anyway, I can’t ski. Adam can, and last year we signed the kids up for lessons. I didn’t have particularly high expectations. After all, they are half my genetic stock. And from experience, it’s usually taken more than one series of lessons for my kids to really pick up a skill.

Swimming? Lucy took months. And Alice still does what we call the Creepy Cheater Legs on the bottom of the pool. They’re still in the beginning stages of dance, though they’ve been in classes for a few years now.

Apparently, though, skiing is a skill you can pick up a little more quickly. After the first few weeks last year, both Lucy and Alice were gliding down the slopes. This year, they’re riding the chairlift with ease (and usually remembering to get off). 

I sit in the lodge and watch them through the foggy window, usually sharing a beer and a cheeseburger with Adam, and it’s a huge thrill to see them zing down the slopes.

Every so often, things go awry. A few weeks ago, Lucy’s class went one way and she went another, resulting in some dramatic arm gestures and duck-walking as she tried to get back on track. And Alice is of the mistaken belief that she will go faster if she flaps her arms. It does not bother her that she is the only person on the slopes doing this.

For the most part, though, the girls ski really well. And I am struck that this is the first thing in their lives that they can do that I can’t. I’ve talked about taking lessons and joining the rest of the family in the snow, but part of me wants to keep it this way.

It’s so easy for parents to always be the experts in everything. One part of letting our kids grow up is allowing them to try things—and encouraging them even when they’re doing something we can’t or don’t know how to do.

It takes a certain amount of letting go, but the feeling of it...well, if I knew how to ski, I’d probably say it’s like the wind in my hair going down a powdery slope. Exhilarating.