The Parent Responsibility Code of Conduct

At the age of two, we decided (aka made the financial mistake) to introduce our son, Sam, to snow skiing. I remember sitting him on a bench in the rental shop while a snow bro sized him for tiny boots and skis, remarking that he was the smallest kid they’d put on skis that season.

We were in Snowshoe, West Virginia, in late February—half the runs closed after weeks of rain—but I was determined to get him on skis just once to see how he’d react.

At first, he scrunched up his face and cried, clearly displeased with the hard plastic boots and the sudden loss of control over his feet as they were snapped into miniature skis.

“No!” he cried. “I walk!”

“It’s okay, baby, I’m here. I promise I won’t let go.” I held him in front of me, bending forward to secure him with both arms, and inched us down the gentle slope until we were gliding, gaining just a bit of speed, the icy wind nipping at our faces.

I couldn’t see his expression as we reached Bryan at the bottom of the bunny hill. But when we stopped and I moved in front of him, I saw a smile so big it lit up his entire face.

“Again!” he exclaimed. “We go again!”

And the rest is history.

Eight years, several mountains, and many hours of ski school later, he’s become a connoisseur of the greens and moderate blues, seeking out every small jump or divot in his quest for “a little air.”

Cece, too, has entered the game. While her passion matches her brother’s, her skill level is… still evolving. Despite her ski school sessions, she prefers to barrel forward in a speed-hungry blur with little regard for the “pizza” slowdown method—or physics in general.

As for me, I was 24 when my then-boyfriend (now baby-daddy-husband) introduced me to skiing—a decision he likely regrets given how much of our money I am willing to spend to hurl myself and our children down snowy mountains. Back then I was more durable, less bruisable, and had muscle tone for days. Still, I’ll never pass up the exhilaration—and mild terror—of a good mountain run.

A couple of weeks ago, Bryan and I took the kids back to Snowshoe for winter break. We spent our days roaming from one side of the mountain to the other, adjusting gloves and goggles and ensuring Cece’s “Harness of Shame” (a contraption designed to help control her speed) was securely fastened—a device she will not shed until she can reliably pizza her way to a stop.

One evening, after a mostly successful day, I found myself staring at the large blue sign outlining the official Skier Responsibility Code of Conduct.

I’ve passed that sign countless times, usually too busy wrangling gear or pretending I meant to fall like that.

But this time, it hit differently.

Each rule felt less like mountain protocol and more like a quiet manifesto for raising kids—especially kids who are no longer wobbling toddlers but not yet independent teens.

Because raising little humans often feels exactly like skiing: you think you’re in control, you’re absolutely not, and you’re just hoping no one gets taken out in the process.

Maybe I need to post that sign in our house, a reminder of what the mountain has been telling me all along.

So here it is: The Parent Responsibility Code of Conduct (Lessons from the Mountain on Raising Little Humans.)

Copyright pending if I can ever figure out how to copyright something.

Always stay in control. You must be able to control your speed, stop, and avoid other people or objects.

Translation: regulate the situation—even when it’s hard.

Easier said than done.

As parents, regulating our own emotional reactions is hard enough. Modeling healthy regulation for our kids? Next-level.

There was one precarious situation the other week, when I found myself dazed and sprawled flat on my back on the mountainside, skis detached and lying somewhere uphill, my also ski-less six-year-old beside me, and my ten-year-old somewhere down the hill having not witnessed the complete and utter wipeout of his mom and sister.

It was freezing. It was dark (yay, night skiing). I was alone with both kids and completely overwhelmed.

So, I did the only thing my body wanted to do: I cried.

Tears streamed down my face as I pulled Cece—also crying—close to me. In that moment, I didn’t feel like a parent. I didn’t even feel like a grown-up. I felt small and wildly out of control.

After a few minutes, I realized the only way out was down. I reassured my daughter, hugging her and encouraging her to keep going with me, snapped our skis back on, took a deep breath, and slowly made our way down.

Parenting is about staying in control in out-of-control moments. It’s hard as hell. Sometimes you fake it until you get back to level ground.

People ahead or downhill of you have the right-of-way. Look uphill and avoid others before starting downhill or entering a trail.

Translation: move through life with awareness of others.

Our kids will encounter so many people in their lives. Early on, friends come easy and naturally.

“Want to be my best friend?”

“Sure.”

“Now we’re best friends!”

But over time, friendships deepen, become more mutually decided. Emotions get complicated. Suddenly, what their peers think really matters. One wrong look or whispered comment can spark insecurity or anxiety. They’re old enough to understand the impact of their actions and words on others.

This is when empathy becomes a skill, not just a concept.

And man, does that up the ante.

Our kids need to understand that not everyone will be their friend. Some won’t agree with them. Some may not even like them—and vice versa. But everyone deserves respect. Words matter. Actions matter. Learning that helps them avoid collisions as they navigate their world.

Stop only where you are visible from above and do not restrict traffic.

Translation: stop in a safe space to avoid injury to yourself or others.

To add a fun and challenging twist to parenting, because their brains are not yet fully developed, they tend to not think fully about such minor details as impulse control or the consequences from lack of impulse control and prefer to barrel through life erratically as if nothing can stop them.

Teaching them to maintain control and take care of others around them also applies to themselves. Kids are big fans of testing their boundaries and exerting their independence.

But without a fully formed prefrontal cortex or limbic system, their rational and decision-making skills are, at best, still very much in the toddler phase.

It cannot be overstated that the combination of these two paradigms can be enough to make even the most patient of parents want to find some peace at the bottom of a tall, cold drink.

But we signed up for this.

So, we teach them to pause. Look around. Take a breath. Check their surroundings. Then move forward more thoughtfully.

They won’t be consistent in this exercise (Are any of us?) But the more they repeat it, the better they will be able to handle themselves out there in the wild, when we might not be so close by to pull them back.

Read and obey all signs, warnings, and hazard markings and keep off closed trails and out of closed areas.

Translation: Pay attention to the emotional, physical, and mental signs your child gives you.

This might be the hardest part of parenting.

I knew when Sam was three that he inherited more than my facial features. He inherited the stubborn strands of my DNA that predispose him to anxiety—maybe even depression.

He wore his heart on his sleeve, exposing it to every little bump or scrape that he encountered. Over time, his sensitive worry became his Achilles’ heel—the one thing that can quiet his joyful laugh in an instant.

Now, as if on cue, I can see his anxiety on full display as he navigates more pre-teen, big kid situations and conflicts—just as I did when I was his age.

Only now, those big feelings tend to go underground more. A situation at school or on the bus clearly impacts him, but his first instinct isn’t to immediately tell me what’s going on. It simmers beneath the surface.

So, I observe. Quietly. Waiting for the right moment to gently tug at the thread.

I’ve become a silent observer of the terrain, watching for the subtle shifts in ground and trying to calculate when he may need a steady hand to guide his footing.

You must know how to load, ride, and unload lifts safely. If you need assistance, ask the attendant.

This is it. This is what it all comes down to.

As the parents of these little humans, it is our sole job to teach and guide them through this chaotic world. To help them experience the joy, diversity, beauty, and wonder of it all— while also helping them to navigate the sharp edges that may hurt them. Making sure they can stand on their own feet, use their voices proudly, and make the world better than we could.

That’s it, that’s the end game of parenting. The key to this?

Never stop talking.

Never let them feel alone or untethered.

Always let them know that no matter what—when, why, who, or how—they can come to us.

So, there you have it.

Whether we’re strapping carbon fiber to our feet and launching ourselves down a mountain, or guiding emotionally unregulated and underdeveloped humans through their first two decades of life, the principle is the same:

We are responsible for how we move through shared space.

We can’t control every skier on the mountain.

We can’t control every influence in our child’s life.

But we can control how prepared, aware, and steady they are.

And honestly? The goal in both is the same:

Stay upright. Avoid unnecessary collisions. And have some fun along the way.