On Friday night, I learned my limitation. I took ten pre-teen girls to the ice rink--along with little brother Victor, who had never ice-skated in his life.

At fortysomething, I had no deep-seated desire to skate; the girls afterall would skate by themselves and completely ignore me. I was cold. I was sore from my early-morning tennis game and half-hour workout with weights. In tiny Ridgefield, Connecticut in January, ice skating on a Friday night is as good as it gets: the place was packed. Clearly two hundred children and hormone- impaired middleschoolers were lacing up, while little Victor begged me to skate alongside him, at this never-before-seen rink, with an almost-desperate look on his face.

Of course I had to oblige. "How tough could this be anyway?" I thought as I snapped on my rented skates. "I work out everyday," I reassured myself. I skated as a kid. We'll take it slowly. I look the part, what with my jeans, turtleneck, and down vest. I mean...I could pass for one of these kids if you caught me at the right angle!

We got onto the ice, Victor holding my hand with a look of "Can I do this, Mom?" and me with an "it's-like-riding-a-bike-you-never-forget-how" assurance.

The first time around was, well, awkward would be an understatement. I was wobbly. Victor held me up. When I asked him how he was doing, he was clearly in control. "I rollerblade, remember, Mom?" Oh yeah...that.

Dozens of wiry boys...barely as high as my kneecap...who had clearly been skating since they could crawl...zigzagged in and out of my path like cockroaches when caught in the dark by a quickly-turned-on light. Whippersnappers! In and out they skated, so fast and with such precision that it took my misted-breath away.

Did I mention the strobe lights? Just when I thought it was safe to look down and see where I was going, the lights playing on the ice only made me dizzy. I was reassured by my assessment when Victor exclaimed: "Mom, don't look down! You'll throw up!"

By the third or fourth time around, I was feeling much more confident. But when a pre-teen girl caught sight of a hottie and abruptly skated backwards...directly in front of me...I was knocked smack on the ice. I landed on my wrists, and fully realized how hard the ice really is...and how much more brittle my bones are at my age...when I picked myself up with a half- laugh and an under-my-breath grunt of "I hope he was worth it."

We were great, Victor and I. He took to the ice like a duck to water and passed me whenever he could, checking in with me every few dozen yards to make sure I was still alive. The second crash was my swan song; I exited to the slightly warmer viewing room with ice on my butt and two clearly bruised wrists, totally ticked off that these kids had gotten the best of me.

Five minutes later, I reminded myself why I was there in the first place: I had a 9-year-old son who needed me, for crying out loud! It was back to the ice for another half-hour. Round and round we went, avoiding the whippersnappers and pre-teen girls with a vengeance. My daughter and her nine friends? Forgetaboutem. Caught in their own little world-on-ice, checking out each face that whirled past them, I was only the night-time driver and MasterCard-holder.

The evening ended with hot cocoa drunk by giggling, rosy-cheeked girls. Victor, encouraged by my proddings of "You're doing so great!" now had his sights set on ice hockey. And my left wrist, though clearly black and blue from a dozen broken blood vessels, was not much worse for the wear.

Will we do that again? Absolutely. Cold air, oxygen to the brain, rosy cheeks, laughter, friends, bonding with my kids, and a sense of community in this New England town of mine are just too compelling.

Looking like a fool when I fall? Black-and-blue reminders of my middle age? Bruises to my ego? Well...that's all part of motherhood.

Keeping the spirit of the holidays after the holidays have clearly passed is one of the challenges of being a Rocket Mom. Keep your eyes wide open for opportunities throughout the next couple winter months to create special memories with your kids. Be it snow-skiing, ice skating, or sledding; or creating unique pottery at your local paint bar...be prepared for giggles and memory-making...and check your ego at the door.

Carolina Fernandez earned an M.B.A. and worked at IBM and as a stockbroker at Merrill Lynch before coming home to work as a wife and mother of four. She totally re-invented herself along the way. Strong convictions were born about the role of the arts in child development; ten years of homeschooling and raising four kids provide fertile soil for devising creative parenting strategies. These are played out in ROCKET MOM! 7 Strategies To Blast You Into Brilliance. It is widely available online, in bookstores or through 888-476-2493. She writes extensively for a variety of parenting resources and teaches other moms via seminars, workshops, keynotes and monthly meetings of the ROCKET MOM SOCIETY, a sisterhood group she launched to