Last call for snow in Vermont

Tuesday morning, Boxing Day, my brother and sister-in-law left bright and early, and we were bleary-eyed and dopey as we saw them off in the coldest temperatures we'd had yet.

It was our last day, but we were agreed we wanted to take it a little easier. We all got one request for what to do: my husband and son wanted to try skiing. My daughter (who, as we recall, is frequently Done With Snow) voted for the indoor pool. I was interested in another snow-shoe expedition. So after some hasty scheduling, my husband took the kids swimming while I joined a tour on winter survival.

From my limited experience, it seems that all snowshoe guides will take you off trail at the first opportunity, although in this case we were finding a spot to gather wood and build a fire. The kids and I had made little, fifteen-minute, fires over the summer and even bought a flint (we have yet to turn sparks into a fire). This minimal grounding made me the most experienced member of the group, so I helpfully advised the teenage boys with the firestarter tool to "try hitting it really hard."

Peeling papery bark from birch trees for kindling

Digging a hole in the snow for a firepit

Not that it worked as the bark was too cold for sparks to take. Our guide had some char cloth and scraps of frayed rope; a spark got the cloth smouldering and that ignited the rope, but it still took a couple more attempts before we could get anything but the bark to burn. The resultant fire gave off so little heat that we were colder standing around it than we were walking—obviously we only had a few minutes and were just using sticks, but coaxing a fire to burn larger logs would be a long, daunting test of patience in sub-zero temperatures.

The other people in the party were a family from New York (Mom and teenage sons, all prepared for the cold) and a family from Florida—three adults, three kids, all wearing snow boots but, crucially, jeans and leggings rather than snow pants. Ironically, the latter gave us our biggest lesson in winter survival as the loose powdery snow found its way into their boots then packed around their feet. We had to cut the walk short (only by a little) because they were too cold to safely continue. This made me appreciate how well our hastily assembled warm weather gear actually worked. Kitting us all out for the holiday had been a big expense on top of the already costly resort booking, but for the entire trip, we stayed warm and dry.

Meanwhile, the rest of my family had stripped down to swimming costumes to enjoy a warm hour or so in the pool. This was nothing fancy (the resort has a nicer pool with slides and such for the summer... outdoors), but it had a floating basketball hoop. More importantly, it was warm and a welcome change from muffling up for snow-play.

 
After lunch, the boys went off for a skiing lesson—neither had tried it before, and they soon discovered that two hours is a long, painful, introduction to the sport. They were sore and aching long before the end. My daughter decided to get our money's worth out of the fireplace by sitting next to it while playing on her iPad. To be fair, we don't have a fireplace at home, so this was a vacation treat. I decided to pick my battles, and instead of dragging her out into the cold, I used the time for some clearing up and packing. I didn't want to leave it all for the evening, as I had other plans...

Those plans were I Did A Sled, a scheduled activity at the introductory ski slope. The resort provided all comers with cardboard and duct tape, and we had forty minutes to build a sled before putting our creation to the test—with ourselves as guinea pigs. True to stereotype, Dad took over the design, our daughter did the bulk of the painting, I sat back and took pictures and our son mostly got in everybody else's way. We probably spent at least fifteen minutes of the build time just on a cardboard Union Jack.

When time was called, I felt reasonably confident in our creation until we found ourselves looking down from the top of the hill. Our sled could hold three, and my husband volunteered to sit out, which seemed less sacrificial as we sat at the crest of the slope, realising that we had absolutely no idea how fast we were going to go down.

The answer was "very fast", but fortunately not "too fast". (Unfortunately, in terms of the competition, "not fast enough!" For anybody seeking to create a cardboard sled, the biggest tip I can give you is to ride lying down.)

Most surprising of all, the sled survived the run—if not fully intact. We were told that the lights would be on for another hour, so we could slide down as many times as we wanted. My husband promptly ran back to our condo and got our actual sled. We spent a good half hour riding down that hill, long after everybody else had got bored and left. Best sledding conditions we've ever had—even our daughter loved every minute. It proved to be a fantastic high note to end our holiday on.

The next day, the temperatures plummeted, which made it easier to say goodbye and head south. We did take a few minutes to try freezing bubbles again—except the kids weren't interested, so it was just my husband and myself messing around with this little bit of physics.

Frozen to the wood.

I poked a hole in the top. For science!

All that was left was checking out and the long, long drive home. The cold followed us down. Good thing we've got all the gear to protect against it! We're already talking about doing another trip to colder climes since we do have the warm clothes... just don't tell my daughter.

White Christmas for Dog-lovers

Since we were going away for Christmas, which I don't typically like doing (even if it was my idea), I wanted to do something really special and unique on Christmas Day. That ended up being Eden Dogsledding, about thirty miles from our Vermont resort. After a phonecall with Jim Blair, the owner, we booked for Christmas Day with the advice to obtain a four wheel drive vehicle to manage the hill road.

Renting a four wheel drive car in Virginia is not an easy task, but the Toyota dealership said they could do it, so we reserved one. When we went to pick it up on the 22nd, we found ourselves with a vehicle that had a snow mode and big wheels... but was not four wheel drive.

We were a few hours from departing for Vermont, and we had no fallback plan, so we took the car, demanded a discount and hoped for good weather. By the time we reached Smugglers' Notch the following evening, a blizzard was predicted for Christmas Day. My brother and his wife had originally intended to stay with us through Christmas morning, and drive down to her grandmother's for Christmas dinner, but once they saw the weather forecast, they decided to extend their stay with us.

Easy for them. We needed to figure out a fallback plan to get to Eden. My husband spent yesterday evening making phone calls to Jim and various people at Smugglers' Notch to see what our options were. Smugglers' Notch thought they might be able to provide us with transport (at a cost) and we also found there was a taxi service with four wheel drive, but ultimately, Jim kindly offered to meet us at a general store on the main road and give us a lift the rest of the way—this is not normally part of the service, and we appreciated the extra effort he went to so we could make our booking.

The kids woke up this morning to find that Santa had filled their stockings and left a handful of presents (the rest are waiting under the tree at home.) The adults woke up to find that most of the snow had dumped overnight, and while more would blow through in the middle of the day, it wouldn't be as bad as first predicted.

This mean we had a fairly straightforward drive through snowy roads under clear skies to the car park where we'd wait for Jim. When he arrived, he came with a passenger: Rose, a fifteen year old former sled dog, who was horrified to discover that she had to share her backseat with me and the kids. The kids were delighted, but Rose was just a preview. When we got there, there was immediate barking and jumping up from the shelter next to us, and then we went inside to find another dozen dogs scattered through the waiting area.

On the sofa with Leonard and Mufasa.

The dogsledding experience was three hours of time with the dogs: forty-five minutes of it, out on the sled, and the rest was interacting with them. For me and the kids, the dog-lovers of the family, this was paradise, and even my avowed cat person of a husband got a kick out of getting to know the pack.

We spent almost an hour loving and playing with the group, while Jim figured out who would make up the team that day. He brought in a handful of other dogs and showed us how to harness them, before we all bundled up to head outside and hitch them to the sled.

Our seven strong team: Aslan who not only knew his commands but knew to choose the other way when we came back to the same intersection. Mitzy (so little!) who was still learning her gee from her haw, but jumped up at us to give kisses. Jersey who hid in his corner under the television until it was time to go, gazed at us devotedly during the post-ride treats, and then went straight back to his hermit spot once they were done. Princess (she must have had some black lab in her) who shivered when we stroked her but stood boldly on her hind legs for treats. Rambo whose blue eyes gazed lovingly into mine, and who pawed me every time I stopped stroking him. Brima, the only one who could care less about the treats, but adored every scrap of attention we gave her. Leonard, the lone runner, who ignored us from his preferred corner on the sofa, left it reluctantly to be harnessed and reclaimed it the moment we returned. Mufasa, who had the other end of the sofa, but tapped us to get our attention so he could be loved too. Finally, Phyllis, who did not follow us outside once harnessed but sneaked back to get the bed she wanted and had to be retrieved so we could start.

Harnessing Brima while Princess and Rambo wait for their turn.

Besides these guys and Rose, we also met Simba who followed us around, pawed us and leaned into any attention we gave him. (Mufasa, Aslan, Leonard, Simba and another dog called Llewellyn were all part of the same July litter.) Bandit, the skinny one, who was originally going to be on our team, but Jim looked him over, gave him the day off and hauled Leonard on board instead. Grettel, Waffle, Lucky, and Flint, also hanging around and taking caresses where available. Ben and Jerry, the ten month old puppies who were racing around the outdoor pens with another dog, watching for the sled to go by. And a few more of the thirty-six dogs total.

Sympathy strokes for Ben and Jerry who so badly wanted to be in on the action.

After all our concerns that we were going to be sledding through a blizzard, trying not to freeze, the conditions ended up being absolutely perfect. Fresh snow on the ground, no wind to blow it off the trees, and the sun peeking through just a little bit. The trails criss-crossed all through the forest: uphill was sedate going, allowing us to admire the wintry scenery; downhill was a thrill ride, especially on some steeper hills. The sled had a 350lb passenger weight limit, so I did twenty-five minutes with the kids and then swapped out for my husband to enjoy the second half of the ride.

Post-run refueling.

Aslan rolls in the snow to cool off

After the dogs had been taken care of, we had hot chocolate and cookies. The snow had started falling as we fed the dogs, and using Jim our chauffeur became a problem when his afternoon group arrived an hour early in an attempt to avoid the worst of the snow. This decided Jim on never giving lifts again (Sorry, future customers! Our bad) as they had to wait in their car, while he drove us back down the hill—this time Aslan insisted on riding with us. We packed ourselves back into our lesser vehicle, and thanks to Vermont's on point snow-ploughing, we made it safely back to Smugglers' Notch. There, the kids decorated the gingerbread house my sister in law had brought and the grown-ups chilled out on the sofa.

The evening's experience was snowmobiling—in the dark. This was the one I was terrified of. I'd much rather put my life in somebody else's hands but my brother and sister-in-law were not taking responsibility for having one of our kids as a passenger, so I had to drive myself and my daughter. I nearly bailed when the guide sternly told us that they lose one sled a year from somebody accidentally pushing the throttle while trying to steer.

However, this felt like a face-your-fears kind of thing, so I resolutely set off with my daughter riding behind me. It was bumpy and wiggly, I couldn't accelerate or brake without jerking us around, and, terrifyingly, my visor misted up at one point, forcing me to stop and open it. Equally unnerving, I couldn't tell whether or not my daughter was still behind me, so I had to put my faith in the knowledge that she has a really good sense of balance.

Going up the mountain was a nerve-wracking experience, but I didn't die, and I had to admit it was pretty cool when the headlights suddenly illuminated snow-covered boulders as we zigzagged through the switchback trail. On the way back, I started getting into it, going faster over the bumps and having confidence through the curves. I could feel my daughter squeezing me with her knees on occasion and saying something impossible to hear through the wind, but after careful listening, I was pretty sure it was Christmas carols. This was so like her that I cracked a smile: I was proud of myself for facing my fears, and delighted that we had done this as a family.

Yay us!

From my daughter's perspective, things were very different. 

She had handled the climb up pretty well, enjoying the new experience and adventure, but as I sped up on the descent, things became scarier. One of her gloves started coming off, so she was clutching that to her chest and holding on with only one hand. Every bump and jiggle became a jump-scare of "Will I fall off?" while her gloveless hand gradually lost all feeling. What I had thought was singing was actually her shrieking to no avail: "Mummy, please stop! Stop! Stop!"

I finally figured out what was wrong when we paused to gather the line of snowmobiles before getting into the trees. She wanted to be done then and there, but our only option was to continue. I was close to the back of the line anyway, but I waved my brother ahead so there was only a guide behind me and then I slowed right down to a snail's pace. The rest of the group disappeared into the distance almost immediately, and the ride back in the dark with the (incredibly patient) guide seemed interminable, though my husband told me we got back only a few minutes after everybody else.

I am never snowmobiling again.

My daughter was a wreck by the time we got her off the horrormobile. She'd lost her glove somewhere along the way, and the guides had to help us off with our helmets so we could hug each other. I gave her one of my gloves and the guides told her they would look out for her lost one. (They found it on the next trip up and we collected it after dinner.) In the end, the only thing that actually consoled her was the suggestion of breaking out the nail polish set she'd got in her stocking that morning.

So as we got dressed for Christmas dinner, we all (brother and uncle included—Daddy somehow missed our pop up salon) had our fingers done with Claire's finest water-based nail polish. We had packed some relatively smart clothing. My brother and sister-in-law hadn't been planning on still being here but my sister-in-law is always prepared for such occasions, so it was only my brother letting the side down with the casual look.

They had to miss out on the Christmas crackers though, as we had only brought four with us. I've done Christmas dinner at pubs in the UK before, but this was the first time I've done it in an American restaurant, and we drew some odd looks as we pulled our crackers and put on the paper crowns inside. Being British, we were too polite to show our pity at their ignorance, but shout-out to the little boy at the next table who was openly amazed and delighted by this tradition.

Afterwards, we had a shuttle ride back to the condo, where the kids were packed into bed and the adults played the 80s / 90s trivia game from my husband's stocking—all of us completely failing at the (American) sports questions. 

It was a very different sort of Christmas, and one that often didn't feel like Christmas—especially without the proper dinner. I missed roast potatoes and alcoholic gravy. But there was enough snow to make up for the forty green Christmases that came before, and—aside from the Snowmobile Ride of Horror—it was insanely fun.

Christmas Eve at Smugglers Notch

Years ago, I decided that what I want for my 40th birthday was a white Christmas. I've seen snow fall (but not stick) on Christmas Day. I've had a Christmas with three day old snowdrifts on the ground. But I've never had a real, Christmas Card picture perfect, white Christmas.


So we booked a three day stay at Smugglers’ Notch in Vermont, which came recommended as a family friendly ski resort for Christmas. We arrived last night in the rain, but a few hours later that turned to snow, and that's what we walked through to dinner.

My brother and his wife joined us, (mostly because we wanted somebody to make us pancakes for breakfast) and today was a case of "Let us do all the Snow Things!" Because we've had to buy an awful lot of thermal and/or waterproof clothing for this trip, and we're bloody well going to get our money's worth.

Naturally, the kids were ready to get outside long before we were, but I had put a bottle of bubble mix in the fridge overnight, and I sent them out on the balcony with the instruction to try and freeze bubbles. That worked surprisingly well on all counts. Next time, I'm making them wait until I'm dressed, so I can play with them too. Frozen bubbles are a little crazy.

By the time we grownups were ready, the kids had been sledding, made snow angels and had a snowball fight around the condos. My daughter was pretty much done with snow already, but we made her go tubing with us anyway.

After lunch, we booked a snowshoe tour, but my daughter put her foot down at this. We dithered between dragging her around the walk or letting her stay at the condo with her aunt and uncle. In the end we decided that yelling: "We're supposed to be enjoying ourselves!" isn't as good as actually enjoying ourselves (and would make us much less popular on the walk) so we left her behind.

Our son was brought along to be our photographer

The snowshoe trek was supposed be a special family one for children as young as four. In fact, our guide decided to take us off-trail on a short cut that repeatedly had us scrambling down steep banks and across small but icy streams. Our family was totally up for this. The elderly couple who thought they would be getting a gentle stroll were less enthused, and one small child gave up a third of the way round, so her father struggled gamely through the rest of the expedition with her on his shoulders.

We met up with Daughter, Uncle and Aunt for the evening bonfire and hot chocolate. There was a special Santa and Fireworks event that evening, so we had dinner and stayed out, because quite honestly, we were afraid that if we went back to our condo, we'd never get our daughter out again.

So, after some night-time tubing (faster slope; longer lines), we spent an hour securing a good spot to see everything, only for everybody to come crowding in front of us at the 7pm start time. Luckily, I'd had the foresight to clip some little torches (flashlights) onto the kids' coats, because they got lost in the crowd immediately, and we could only tell where they were by their lights.

We were hoping this was going to be worth it, and honestly, we weren't disappointed. Snowboarders holding red flares came weaving down the mountain, lining up briefly in front of us before making way for a massive snowplow bearing Santa (who got out of there pretty quickly while the fireworks went off.) After the firework display, we could go and meet Santa inside, although we really only went in for the cookie and hot chocolate, because our family has priorities.

Torchlight Parade

So now the kids are tucked up in bed, and the stockings are by the fire, along with a handful of presents. (Most of them are waiting under the tree at home.) Tomorrow, I'm getting the White Christmas I've always wanted, but it's a case of "Be careful what you wish for," as a blizzard is coming through and threatening all our plans...

From 25 to 40: 15 years of adulting

Today I turned forty. I'm not having a midlife crisis at the moment, so it's been fun to have a 'big' birthday—especially as I really wasn't in the mood to turn thirty, so the last time I actually celebrated a milestone birthday was when I turned twenty-five.

As it happens, a friend of mine turned twenty-five four days ago, and his commentary reminded me that this had been (for me at least) the birthday where I really had to admit I was an adult now, no matter how I immature I still felt... So what have I done in my fifteen years of determined adulting?

I got engaged, married—I fell in love with my husband before turning twenty-five, and that was possibly the most miraculous accomplishment of my earlier adulting. (I don't fall in love easily, and it took having a nervous breakdown to achieve it. Long story.) We had two children, after a lot of fertility treatment and an incredible amount of privilege when we discovered our health insurance covered IVF. Long before the children, we've had the two cats who've been an integral part of our adult lives. Last year we killed four fish. I don't want to talk about it.

We bought two houses which came with two mortgages—at the time it seemed horrifically depressing to think these would not be paid off until we were in our forties. Now we're giddy at the thought that we're just a few years away from being debt-free. (Touch wood!) We've moved several times, twice it was barely a mile, once it was across the Atlantic Ocean. We moved back in with my parents for a long three months. Four years later, they moved in with us for one month. Can confirm it's easier that way round—for me at least. They may tell a different story!

First House

At twenty-eight years old, I finally figured out what I wanted to do for the rest of my life: Teach Montessori pre-school. I then proceeded to have babies and gradually transitioned to stay-at-home Mum. I am not as good as caring for my own children as I am at caring for other people's, and I am utter rubbish at housekeeping, so for all the conveniences stay-at-home parenting brings, it's come at a substantial cost to my self-esteem. Going back to work became so daunting that I procrastinated. This year, I reminded myself how much I used to enjoy it and started a Montessori qualification that I should finish next summer. Let's see if I can get my career on track before I'm fifty?

I'm lighter than at twenty-five, in part because I weigh myself daily now and attempt to maintain a healthy lifestyle—and in part, because I'm no longer on the pill and my screwed up hormones are at least kind to me in the weight department. This year, my knees started clicking as I go up stairs, which I am inordinately annoyed by, but physically, I'm still active and can do anything I ever used to—in most cases more, because I've been making a conscious effort that I never did before—with the weird exception of swinging: I now get vertigo at the zenith. (Yet roller coasters are fine.)

 Selfies for Today

I've been finding grey hairs for most of the fifteen years, but as yet there are no grey streaks and I've not been tempted to dye, though this is going to be one of the hardest transitions for me. I'm vain about my hair. After thirty, I noticed a dramatic increase in "bad" photographs... my face was becoming weathered, looking more tired, the crow's feet had appeared... But ten years on, I'm not 'wrinkly' yet—except for my belly button, which hasn't been the same since pregnancy. Otherwise, the things I don't like about my body are the same as fifteen years ago—admittedly, these have got worse rather than improving.

One of my friends (no children) commented on my facebook today that at forty-two she still doesn't feel old enough to have kids. I hadn't thought about it that way, but I immediately knew what she meant. I struggle with what are surely basic adult tasks like cleaning kitchen appliances or anything to do with the car; I run to and from the mailbox because I'm too impatient to walk; I have the attention span of a goldfish and the sense of humour of a twelve year old. On different occasions, I've successfully dealt with the clean up of excessive amounts of bodily fluids—urine, vomit, faeces and/or blood—but I'm honestly a little baffled as to how.

Parenting sometimes feels natural

Yet I've learned a lot about myself. Faced a few fears; discovered more. I've had a couple of medical conditions diagnosed and treated; I wonder about some neurological ones—though that's about understanding my own idiosyncrasies, their limitations and how to work around them. It's an ongoing project. I've invested more heavily into my relationship with my husband and children than I would have believed possible—or maybe it's harder than I believed... I do know I'm grateful for the payoff.

Fifteen years ago, I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with my husband. The idea of us turning forty together seemed quaintly romantic. Now it's our reality (we're halfway there... he'll be forty in a few months), and that's perhaps the best thing about today. I know better than to think this means "Happily Ever After," but I still feel that there's a hell of a lot of "Ever After" to come. So far, time remains on our side.