This morning as I got up and prepared to take the kids off to their appointments instead of sending them off to school, I realized that it is, indeed, still winter.
I am ever so grateful that Mother Nature heard my plea and sent us buckets of fluffy white snow the other day. We were blessed with a few days of nicer weather — still below freezing, of course, but above -10 C, with a lovely thick snowfall, all of which qualifies as nice. The kids certainly enjoyed spending hours racing down the ski hill with The Man We Call Dad.
Well, except for the falling-into-an-unseen-pit-hidden-by-fluffy-snow-and-having-your-skis-pop-off part.
Oh, and the falling-off-the-chairlift part. (Don’t worry – it was right at the start before anyone was airborne.)
And the fact that our great big thermos jug apparently has decided to retire young and therefore is refusing to keep the hot chocolate hot. Or even warm. Or even lukewarm-ish.
But despite all that, they had a great time and came home thoroughly worn out. So much so that all three of them went straight to sleep on whatever cozy surface they could find.
As for me, having chosen to not throw my somewhat precariously held together self down the side of a mountain at breakneck speeds, I enjoyed a day of reading and crocheting and chatting with friends without any interruptions, and then I enjoyed tiptoeing around my still silent house with a secret little smile tugging at my lips as I watched all three of my most loved ones sleep away the latter part of the day.
Despite the cold and despite the need for shoveling and despite the torturously, endlessly, long nature of the season, I do like winter. If nothing else, it provides a great excuse to spend great quantities of time curled up under a blanket with a book and maybe a child or two.