My kid wakes me up like a bad '80s remix of a bad '80s song, repeating herself ad-nauseum in a club-dub, “Mom, mom, mom, can we go out now? Mom, mom, I wanna go out. Mom, mom mom, can we go out now? Mom, mom, I wanna go out.” (Repeat.)

Mumbling something unintelligible, I hurtle myself out of bed toward the coffeepot.

First cup of coffee later, she appears again, in hat, gloves, Capri jeans, snow boots, tee-shirt.  “I’m ready!”

This is the kid who, on school days, can’t get a sock on in under an hour.

I help to re-dress her, and then squeeze myself into my snowboard clothes.  On our way to Vassault park, we see snow-shovelers, a mailbox knocked out of the ground by a wayward car, a stuck SUV, an electrical van spinning wheels in an attempt to get up a hill, and a cross-country skier.

We get to the hilly party on Vassault Park, and play the super fun game of kid-slides-down, mom-carries-the-sled-back-up.

Twice, I sit into the plastic sled.  First time, with her, we go wicked fast, hitting a snow bank on the bottom.  That thing was huge, must have been, like, six inches.  Next time, I sit alone, hurtling through space, nearly flattening a kid on a blow-up ring.  Same snow bank stops me, sending snow flying straight into my nostrils.

Wheeee.

She serenades me with Christmas songs as I lug her home (she’s tired and frozen, and couldn’t possibly walk, she tells me) and we see more snow-shoveling, smiling people.
And I’m thinking, yeah, it’s like Christmas, without the stress.

The power of powder. â€" Jessica Corey-Butler