I’m writing from Winter Park, Colorado.

It’s a little past six in the morning. I went to bed at eight last night and slept the whole way through. That’s how tired I was.

I’d made it up to 12,000 feet earlier in the day. I skied for seven hours straight, the first four of which were spent with my kids. Skiing, in general, is hard work. But skiing with a six- and nine-year-old can be, well, painful.

From left to right, Cranor kids, Mallory and Eli Cranor; image by Lance Lawrence

First, you have to get them dressed. There are layers upon layers to this stage, and by the time you’re done your son’s sweating and crying and screaming, “I can’t move my arms!”

And he can’t. He looks like Randy, the little brother from “A Christmas Story.”

Then it’s time to drive to the mountain. The ride isn’t bad because your father-in-law hauls all the gear in the bed of his truck (he will pay for this ride later when he realizes there’s nowhere, and I mean nowhere, to park, which leads to the next hurdle).

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TThe people are ridiculous. They’re not acting crazy or mean. It’s nothing like that. It’s just the sheer volume of humanity. There are literally lines to get in line for the ski lifts.

But wait, I’m getting ahead of myself. You still have to rent a locker, change your boots (cue more sweating, screaming, crying), and then, finally, you get to stand in line for the Gemini Lift, aka the baby lift, the one with all the other crying kids.

After a twenty-minute wait, you're on the lift. Your hands are cold. Your toes are numb. This doesn’t help when it’s time to exit the lift. It’s a balancing act, a leap of faith with one kid’s elbow in one hand and your ski poles in the other, but you stick the landing.

“We’re there.”

You actually say this out loud, making a joke your kids don’t get because they haven’t seen “Dumb and Dumber.” Another dad ahead of you glances over his shoulder and grins. He gets it. His kids are older than yours. Not by much. Just a couple years, but they’re way better skiers.

It’s striking how much more independent they are. That dad doesn’t have to do anything; he just moseys along behind his offspring as they slice down Porcupine Way then cut over to Bobcat Alley.

That moment, that thirty-second epiphany, fuels the next four hours. It shifts your entire paradigm. Nothing is a chore. Nothing is painful.

You smile as you pole your children over the long flat bunny slopes. You ski behind them, helping them up every time they fall. You feed them granola bars and water and stop for countless bathroom breaks without so much as a grumble because it’s all so fleeting. You finally understand that, and then they’re gone.

Tuckered out. Pooped.

Your mother-in-law swoops in to save the day. She shuttles them back to the condo, leaving you and your wife three full hours’ worth of one-on-one skiing.

You take a deep breath. You look each other in the eyes. You’re both dead tired, exhausted like you haven’t been in forever. Things are so much calmer without the kids. You’re not sure what to do with yourselves.

Your wife offers you a granola bar. You ask her if she needs to pee. Nobody’s screaming or crying. All is quiet on the mountain, and then, finally, you start to ski.

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