Sunday afternoon, Easter: Our mobility-converted Honda Odyssey is climbing into the Tahoe area, and we can see snow flying off of the windshields of cars coming down the mountain on the other side of the road. We keep climbing and suddenly we are in the snow, light flakes falling, but enough to inspire Scarlett to launch into Let It Go. It really doesn’t take much to get her to sing that song. “Snow glows white on the mountain tonight!” she crows, and when she has finished the song, she starts it again. And again. Also again. I blame jelly beans.

Monday: We’ve come to the snow for our spring break, although I’ve discovered via Facebook that everyone else we know seems to be in Hawaii this week. After a tough season in Tahoe with barely any snow, there are now “two feet of fresh powder at the summit.” Those words are in quotes because I heard someone else say them. I don’t talk like that. I was always a reluctant skier; once I got going, it was fun, but I never loved it. You can read about my last ski experience here. It will clue you into why skiing is not something I miss very much. But having written that, I feel it necessary to add that there were times, skiing down a simple blue run, when I felt so graceful and so peaceful that I could see why people obsess over the sport. That doesn’t change the fact that chair lifts are scary.

In the afternoon, we teach Scarlett how to play Old Maid. She wins two games, and Rob has a talk with her about sportsmanship.

Tuesday: Rob shows me a video of Scarlett skiing. She glides down a mountain the way I once jogged up staircases, like it’s no big deal. Like the slope is the whole world in front of her, and she just has to make sure her skis are pointed in the right direction. When we show her the video, she’s mad. “I wasn’t even turning!” she yells. “It does not look beautiful!” How wrong she is about that. I have hardly ever seen something so beautiful. But Scarlett is mastering the art of defiance, as well as the art of skiing, right now.

We take the gondola from our hotel to the ski village, as we did the night before. My wheelchair wedges in between the seats, and we watch as the evening light sifts through color choices, settling on royal blues and golds. Once off the gondola, I have to plow through snow to get to dinner. Scarlett cheers, and I feel vaguely powerful. “Mommy is a badass,” Rob actually says.

Wednesday: I love that Scarlett loves to ski, and that it’s something she and Rob can share. Right now, they are off skiing together, while I sit in our hotel room, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the mountain, with its pine trees and patchy snow. I once wished for this, an inspiring view and solitude for writing. And so I choose to think of the moment as a wish fulfilled. From here I can spot my two skiers as they come up the mountain, Rob in his yellow jacket, Scarlett with her white one. Him, guiding her into the hotel, her, begging him to snap icicles off the unused heat lamps. Both of them, looking up at my window and waving. Scarlett saunters into the hotel with an icicle in her mouth.

Thursday: Rob and Scarlett have been sneezing and coughing. They went swimming our first day here, in the snow. Scarlett ran back and forth between the hot tub, the pool, and the snow-covered lounge chairs, where she laid like a polar bear, wearing only her swim suit. I hid beneath a sleeping bag of a jacket, snow turning to rain in my lap, and marveled at how the other two people in my family are certifiably insane. This, I think, is why they have colds now.

We’re leaving tomorrow, heading back to reality and taxes. But for now, it’s one more day of skiing for the crazies, and one more day of watching for me.

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