One hundred inches.

That's what those in the know say this storm will bring to Tahoe. Bring it on! But give us a break tomorrow night so we can drive home.

My dad, the twins and I drove up here late Wednesday night for our annual Three Generation Ski Trip. (Sorry Green Valley Elementary School, we can't let school stand in the way of their education!) Last year's trip was a fiasco. It stormed so hard the whole week that we did not get in a single day. This year has made up for it.

Thursday was beautiful -- blue skies and a few inches of fresh snow. Bonus: spending St. Patrick's Day on the slopes means you're off the hook on adding food coloring to the toilet, looking for green clothes and eating corned beef for dinner. We convinced Paige, her sister Celia and six assorted kids in their clan to come with us. Mid afternoon we stopped for snacks at the fire pit on the deck at Squaw Creek. Tori thanked me for skiing faster. She told me that she worries when I get so far behind. That would be a backhanded compliment if she were older than nine. A trip to the hot tub, big bowls of pasta and a soft bed topped with a down comforter finished off the day.

Friday was a great day of skiing, too, in a different way. The storm was on its way so we got in three hours of skiing, the last run of which was in the storm. Falling snow is not bad; it's the wind and the lack of visibility that get you. We watched a bit of the USSA Junior Championships on Red Dog. I am in awe of kids who ski up the black diamonds faster than I ski down them. The mountain has been uncrowded and it's a dream to ski without the fear of being being nailed from the rear by a snowboarder. My brother and his family joined us today. I had a Perfect Moment.

There is something special about being out on the mountain with your kids: there is no whining, no arguing, just happy children debating which run to take next and yelling things like, "Awesome!" and "Let's do it again!" On days like these I praise my father for forcing me to learn to ski at age 12.