I emerged slowly from the warm house into the snowy wonderland of our backyard, not far behind my excited two-year-old. His bright laughter rang out as he stepped uncertainly over the cold white blanket covering the patio.
A quick backward glance for reassurance and he was off, wading through the snow, without concern for the 135-pound Bernese Mountain Dog bounding after him.
He ran towards his favorite toys — The climb-up slide he’s outgrown, the new, taller slide he hasn’t quite mastered yet, and the blue pickup truck that looks “just like Daddy’s.” Everything was hidden under white, and he looked back again for Mom’s reassurance.
I couldn’t help but remember the inevitable piles of dog poo beneath the snow he ran through, or the sharp-edged rocks just a slip and a fall away. I was thinking of these as I watched him pack his first snowball, dropping it gleefully and asking, “Where’d it go, Mommy?”
The joy in his eyes reminded me of another day in the snow, a decade ago, when his father and I were so newly in love. Sledding and building snowmen, sipping hot chocolate after a long day of snowy activities we were far too old for. It’s a favorite memory.
“Do you want to build a snowman?!” I asked, helping him to his feet. “Like on TV!!” We just watched Frozen last week.
Twenty minutes later, a lopsided but respectably tall snowman sat perched in the center of the lawn. We laughed because it had no face and then snapped a small branch in half for two arms. Only one would survive the dog’s excitement on this exquisite snow day.
I watched our little toddler monster mar the untouched snow around us, stomping in every inch and picking it up until not one, not two, but three pairs of gloves were entirely drenched. He’s been in the snow before, but never when he was old enough to play like this.
The untouched winter landscape of freshly fallen snow is so beautiful, masking the dog poo and other yuck under its impeccable purity. But the disruption of perfection is equally beautiful — A child throwing his first snowball, a dog stealing a snowman’s arm, or the unstoppable joy of young love on a cold winter day.
The sun is going down now and a pink glow is creeping across the sky. Our yard is quiet underneath it, all kicked up snow and a funny-looking snowman with no face. My son’s snow pants are hanging to dry by the back door nearby a pile of sodden gloves and hats.
He is enjoying the quiet hour with his favorite cartoons while his infant sister sleeps in her baby swing nearby. The dog is napping on the couch, entirely worn out by this day of play. The lights are low in the living room.
I’m here too, sitting in the kitchen, my mind on what I’m writing, but also on the dinner waiting to be prepared. It’s been a wonderful snow day, and I’m sorry for it to end. Until next time, snow!
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