Skiing with a Snowy Bottom a personalized book with your child as the hero

Ivy had imagined skiing as a lovely swishing sound. Swish past a tree. Swish round a corner. Swish all the way to hot chocolate. On the first morning of the family's snow holiday, the ski-school instructor checked Ivy's helmet strap, goggles and boots. Ivy wore mittens and a coral jacket. The short yellow skis looked like sunshine for the feet.

The learner slope was barely a hill, with a wide flat place at the bottom. First they shuffled on level snow. Then Ivy tried a tiny slide. One ski went left. The other went somewhere else. Their tips crossed, and Ivy sat down with a soft whump. Snow slipped inside the jacket hem. This was definitely not the swish from the imagining.

“I want the hotel,” Ivy said. The instructor, Ren, crouched nearby and checked that nothing hurt. Nothing did, except the feeling. Other children seemed to know where their feet belonged. Ivy's feet had become two enormous spoons. “We can have a break,” Ren said. “And when you're ready, I can show you the way back up.”

Ivy nodded at the getting-up part. Sitting in cold snow wasn't much fun either. Ren helped untangle the skis and place them side by side across the little slope, below Ivy's body. “Across the hill, so they don't run away.” Ivy brought the body close over the boots, put mittened hands on the snow uphill and pushed. Ren stayed close, ready to steady. Up came a snowy bottom.

Standing felt surprisingly good. Ivy brushed the jacket, leaving a little snowy patch behind. “Now the hotel?” asked Ren. Ivy looked at the yellow skis. “Maybe one thing first. How do I tell them to stop?” Ren smiled. That was a question worth staying for. They went to the flat practice patch, where neither ski could hurry anywhere.

Ren made a triangle with the skis. The tips came close without touching; the tails spread apart. “A snowplough. Some people call it pizza.” Ivy tried making a giant pizza and nearly sat down again. Ren suggested a comfortable smaller shape, with soft knees and weight balanced over the feet. Ivy looked ahead instead of folding over to stare at the boots. The triangle stayed.

On a very short, gentle glide, Ren showed another shape: two skis pointing the same way, a little apart, like chips. That shape allowed the skis to glide more freely. It wasn't a command to race. Ivy tried it for a moment, with Ren beside the route, then opened the tails into a pizza. The inside edges brushed the snow. Shhhh. Slower. Still.

“I stopped!” Ivy said. It was a different sort of excitement from going fast. Ivy could choose to slow down. They played a stopping game, always leaving lots of room. Sometimes the triangle came late. Sometimes Ren needed to help. They rested before tired legs became wobbly, and the hotel hot chocolate tasted just as good after a small lesson.

Over the next mornings, Ren added gentle turns. Ivy learned to guide both ski tips towards the next orange marker, keeping the wedge and looking where the turn would go. The little nursery slope began to have a pattern: turn, room, turn, room, stop. A fall still happened. This time Ivy knew that a fall had a next part. Skis across. Body close. Push up.

On Thursday, a younger child called Pip sat down near the flat practice edge and began to cry. Ivy stopped safely with Ren, well clear of the other learners. “My skis won't listen,” Pip said. Ivy recognised that feeling immediately. With Ren's permission, Ivy stepped out of the skis and knelt on the level snow nearby. “Mine were spoons at first.” Pip blinked.

Ren checked Pip, arranged the skis across the slope and supported the getting up. Ivy offered a mitten for reassurance, without pulling. “Hands on the uphill snow,” Ivy reminded Pip. “Then a push.” Pip rose with Ren's help. A tiny laugh escaped. “Snowy bottom!” Pip said. Ivy turned to show the snowy patch on the coral jacket. Now there were two of them.

Friday brought the ski-school race: a short trail through wide pairs of soft orange markers, with one child starting at a time. Everyone who completed their own safe run would receive a medal. Nobody needed the fastest time. Even so, Ivy's tummy fluttered at the start. The last gate looked far away. “You can wait or miss this turn,” Ren said.

Ivy looked at Ren, then at the clear little course. Pip waved from safely outside it. Ivy didn't need to promise never to fall. “I know how to stop,” Ivy said. Ren checked downhill and gave the signal. Ivy started in a small wedge, knees soft, mittens forward. First gate. A gentle turn. The next gap appeared, wide enough for two enormous spoons.

Ivy guided the skis through every gate, leaving space to slow between turns. At the bottom, the pizza grew a little wider. Shhhh. The skis stopped before the waiting area. Ren came over with a medal on a short ribbon, safe to wear now that the skiing had finished. “You learned control, and you helped somebody feel less alone.” Ivy beamed. The medal shone. The bottom was snowy. Both belonged to a skier.