We bickered over what our kid would put on his feet. Until we realized that he wouldn’t be standing on them.
We had what we thought was a typical marital spat for skiers expecting a baby. I knew that any human born to a long line of racers from the Rockies would be an alpine skier. My husband, Jim, a diehard telemarker with a backcountry habit, voted for pins. We agreed to disagree, but we always assumed we’d sprinkle a thorough ski education over whatever offspring entered our Seattle life. As my belly grew, so did our trash talk.