I became a snowplow parent on a literal ski slope, and I still don’t think I should apologize for it.
My son wanted to go on a college ski trip. He was excited. I was concerned. The last (and only) time he’d been on skis was when he was four years old, pizza-ing down the bunny hill in a puffy snowsuit with a bunch of preschoolers. Now he was potentially facing steeper hills with friends who navigated black diamonds with ease, and the trip organizers made it clear: no lessons would be available at the mountain.
So, I did what in-vogue parenting experts tell you not to do. I cleared the path. I booked a ski day at a local mountain, arranged for private professional instruction, made sure he had proper gear (and knew how to put it on), and watched him spend hours learning stops and turns, falling and getting back up before eventually leaving the learning area. Would he be able to keep up with his friends? Doubtful, but at least he could be on the slopes and in the lodge.
Was I a snowplow parent? Technically, yes. I removed an obstacle before he encountered it. But here’s what the cutesy label doesn’t capture: I didn’t remove the mountain; I didn’t ski down it for him. I just made sure he had a fighting chance to enjoy it himself.
I knew exactly what I was trying to prevent because I’d lived it. At fifteen, I went on a ski trip with friends who were shredding the mountain like it was nothing. On day two, peer pressure and teenage bravado pushed me onto a black-diamond slope that my blue-level skills had no business attempting. Halfway down, frozen with fear and unable to control my skis through the moguls, I did the walk of shame — literally.
I unclipped my skis and walked down the rest of the mountain. I was lucky, I guess. A friend who tried skiing above his ability ended up on the ski patrol rescue sled with a dislocated knee.
That memory sat with me as my son talked about this college trip and whether he should go. Was I clearing obstacles he needed to face? Or was I using my experience to prevent him from missing out entirely?
The
parenting label (and judgment) never seems to stop —
helicopter, snowplow,
gentle, FAFO, free-range, tiger mom. Each gets weaponized in comment sections and social gatherings. But here’s what gets lost in terminology: the difference between removing obstacles and providing preparation.
I didn’t remove the difficulty of learning to ski. The pre-ski trip lessons made him comfortable enough to participate, even if it meant falling and skiing alone sometimes. Did he love it? No. Will he ski again? Well, he has not suggested another trip. But he got to participate in a popular college event with friends — a lasting memory for sure.
I cleared the path to the ski slope. The rest was up to him.
