Stowing Away Cash
By JILL SHERENSKY

It's a month before my due date. As the just married bride (five months along herself) and I ready for the push off at the top of Chair 2, we speculate that this may be the first time two pregnant women have skied down Internationale together.

According to medical science, I conceived on Aug. 1. Though I don't remember the particulars of that night, I do remember the epic mountain bike ride of Aug. 2. The 4,000-foot downhill certainly shook the kid, but as my father says, they're tough little parasites. We learned that our little parasite was shaped remarkably like a cashew nut, and so we called her Cash.

Skiing, like heroin use, is on the Top Ten List of things that make your OB wag a disapproving finger. Of course this disapproval is voiced only if you actually tell them you will be skiing. And skiing is like breathing—more difficult under certain conditions, but you can't give it up entirely.

I chose to heed the "no heavy lifting" advice, however. Those 50-pound bags of explosives for avalanche control would have haunted me, so I took a sabbatical from my job as a professional patroller.

By December, I was getting kicked (sign language for "Let's hit the powder"?). My mild apprehension evaporated instantly: skiing felt great. Later, as walking became awkward, I was still graceful and fast on my skis. Friends understood this need; only true strangers were shocked. We spent January skiing in France, and the French reaction was even less judgmental. They advised hot-spiced wine to keep the baby warm on the slopes.

Today the side zips are at half-mast, and buckling my boots is an adventure. I can testify to the extensibility of stretch Capilene, but Gore-Tex just doesn't give.

My mother skied Internationale a week before my birth and returned to ski it a week after. I may not hit the week after due to snow melt, but my mountain bike will certainly be calling.

Some play Mozart to their unborn children to introduce them to great culture. I like to think that we're giving Cash a taste of our culture: of clean alpine air, of the rush of gravity, of the white underfoot.

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