Marriage

The Skis

A Christmas gift for a future neither of us could see.

Photo by Harry Gillen on Unsplash

They could only be one thing. Even wrapped in shiny Christmas paper, they were about as long as I was tall.

I had a hard time believing it.

It was Christmas morning, 1998. Our son was 15 months old, and I was expecting baby number two the following spring.

When I tore off the paper, there they were: skis.

He excitedly explained how their Q-tip shape supposedly made turning and carving easier.

I didn’t know how to be appropriately grateful. I was mostly stunned.

I was a full-time, stay-at-home mom with a 15-month-old and another baby on the way.

“When do you think I’ll be able to use these?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

It was Christmas morning, 1998. Our son was 15 months old, and I was expecting baby #2 the following spring.

So when I unwrapped my gift, I was a bit perplexed while my husband was excited. He had seen the new, parabolic skis and thought she should try those.

For years, we shared a ski house rental near Mt. Snow in Vermont. We drove for hours every weekend in my Range Rover and skied in typical icy northeast conditions.

The first winter we didn’t go was when I was expecting a baby that spring. I was not one of those women who would forget about being pregnant and ski anyway. We stayed home that winter, and my husband skied a few times locally.

We were staying home this winter, too, because our son was not quite a year old. I was not one of those women who would strap her baby in a papoose and hit the slopes.

It wasn’t that I didn’t like skiing. I did.

Before children, skiing had been part of our life together. For several winters, we rented a ski house near Mount Snow with friends. Friday nights meant loading the Range Rover and driving to Vermont. Saturday and Sunday meant getting up early, bundling ourselves into layers and spending the day on icy New England slopes.

I had always rented my skis. So maybe, to my husband, buying me my own pair made perfect sense. The babies were temporary. Pregnancy was temporary. Eventually, we would go back to Vermont, and I would ski again.

I just couldn’t see that far ahead. At that moment, I could barely see past diapers, naps and the baby growing inside me.

Still, they were beautiful skis.

And they were mine.

Seven weeks later, I had a massive hemorrhagic stroke.

I don’t remember what eventually happened to those skis.

I remember that I never used them.

When he bought them, neither of us knew I had already skied for the last time.

I never skied again.

Thank you for reading.

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© Victoria Ponte — 2026