There ought to be ceremonies held often to commemorate the things mothers do…every day things for sure. But a special medal should be struck with an oak leaf cluster for taking four and five-year-olds skiing. No need for that medal, if mothers had four hands, four eyes and the patience of Zoloft. But operating with the usual complement of physical properties, kids and skis can drive anyone to the edge.

First there are the crowds (can’t go during the week, kids are in school), then the lines, the waivers to fill out, the fees. And then at last allowed into bedlam…the changing area… you’re eligible to wait forever on the rental line for skis and boots. Once equipped, the work begins. Mom’s down on her haunches, trying to get Johnny to zero in as she pulls on his ski pants, seats his feet into boots while keeping him from stepping in his stocking feet on the floor which is wet from melted snow. Then the jacket, the helmet and goggles and lip balm…and the clock’s ticking, he’s late for his lesson.

Finally snapped, buttoned and zipped into gear, he announces the final obstacle to mom’s sanity…he needs to pee. “Mom, I really have to pee”. The process once done is now repeated.

“Now where did I put that second bottle of Zoloft?”