Ski School is basically God's greatest gift to Moms and Dads on family vacation.
For four hours, they get to have a play date on the mountain. They take selfies and ski poses of each other in scenic spots. They sneak over to the kids' side of the mountain and spy on us having a great time, then promise to take ski vacations every year.
It's a great deal for the kids, too, once you get past the laborious task of dressing in a thousand layers of poofy snow gear.
The ski instructors are really nice.
Except when they call you "Cassidy".
No worries, my own great-grandmother calls me "Kimberly", so I can own that joke. The instructors taught us some great moves, making it all good in the end.
The basics of skiing include making your skis line up like French fries to go fast, and closing them in the shape of a slice of pizza to slow down and stop.
Ryan was proficient in the super speed French fry part. But every time he came bombing down the hill we could hear his teacher shouting "PIZZA, RYAN, PIZZA!", until he eventually just slammed into her.
We asked him if he knew how to do pizza skis, and he said "Yes, but I like to go fast".
He liked ski school a lot.
But said it made him "widdy widdy tired".
He and Mom usually headed back to the hotel after lunch, while I got to stay and show Dad my new moves.
We have to do this every year. Forever.
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