FAMILY MATTERS by Jude Dobson | Auckland Home | Renting and Buying in Auckland

It's four years since our family last hit the snow. As an intermediate skier I'm happy just to potter along at my usual level. I fully expected our older kids would pick up where they'd left off but I didn't think they'd surpass me so quickly which, of course, they have. Rather galling, really.

After a couple of days of lessons we skied together for a few runs. I spent most of the time briefing my 11-year-old son to stay on the main trail.

He was "technically" on trail, he informed me when I caught up, just using the edges to try out some jumps. I explained it made a mother's blood pressure rise to see her son head off over a hill into the bright blue, not knowing what came next.

The 100-mile-an hour son was balanced by the technically correct 14-year-old daughter. She was busy practising what she'd been taught and skied happily with me. That is until her Dad offered to take both of them on the advanced trails - the trails I don't attempt. There wasn't even a "should I, shouldn't I?" to make me feel like a viable option, just a brazen "Yep, let's go and carve it up, Dad".

I'm still more capable than the small person. While the others are level 5 to my 4, she is still on 3. She was delighted to be taken out of ski school to show off her new skills.

Four years ago it was like pulling teeth. There was endless fussing and crying about big boots, funny gloves, bulky jackets and pants, clingy thermals. Nothing was easy, and that was before we even got the skis on! In short, a disaster.

Fast forward and this time she asked me on the chair lift. On and off the thing like a pro then down the hill she went. Over wee jumps, under hoops and flags, doing a dance as she went. Delightful. No tears, only laughter that Mum couldn't fit under the hoops. At this rate, next time we come she'll be skiing with Dad, too.

I'm writing this in the Coronet Cafe where I'm having a morning off. I possibly should have written this last night, but my legs are not unhappy to be parked under a table.

We managed to get a couple of days in before the school holidays started and, suddenly, all the Australian accents have changed to Kiwi ones, and the slopes are packed. I've had two lessons and on both occasions I was the only Kiwi out of 80 people. Lots of Australians, but folk from further afield, such as South Africa, (obviously not soccer fans), Europe and Asia.

The instructors also hail from all corners, with their home countries noted on their name badges. So far, none of our kids has had a Kiwi instructor.

They are endlessly patient, those instructors, and very good at their job. I saw one coping with a group of terribly behaved children. He was patient, firm, asking nicely for the misbehaviour to stop, but the brats seemed oblivious. Poor bugger. I told him I hoped he drew the long straw next lesson and, as my parting shot, asked the kids in question to please show some respect and listen to the instructor. I got a "who are you??" look, but at least I tried.

There's a great new system in which you get a pass you load up with product. It means no more fiddling with the sticky ski pass and the wait for the lift to scan it. It's all scanned automatically at the gates. Today, I learnt it's better to recharge it online before you come as this morning the self-recharge computer screens on the mountain had a joint hissy fit and we had to do the old-fashioned thing and line up to buy passes from a human. Forty five minutes later we reached the slopes but missed the start of the lesson.

So, it's a family day of skiing. The Big Easy for the small person and me, and Ego Alley and The Half Pipe for the others.