When Snow Days Change

Motherhood, Growing Boys, and the Quiet That Follows

I woke up today to nearly two feet of snow, fierce winds, and forecasts saying it will continue well into the night. As I shoveled a path for my fur babies, I couldn’t help but remember the snow days of the past.

Today, three teenagers are happily sleeping in after staying up late — advance notice of a day off. The excitement last night was there, but it wasn’t the same kind of excitement.

Years ago, snow days meant boots by the door before breakfast. It meant hours outside, cheeks red from the cold, coming in only long enough for hot chocolate before heading right back out.

Now the excitement is about not setting an alarm. Not standing at the bus stop at 6:30 a.m. Not having to drive themselves anywhere.

I remember the year my oldest was finally old enough to want to dig into the snow. His uncle came over with one of those plastic brick molds to build his very first igloo. We had shoveled a narrow path in the backyard so he could walk with a little freedom, but the rest of the yard was untouched — deep and waiting.

They bundled up and headed out, and I remember wondering if he’d just topple over, stiff in all those layers. When I looked outside later, I expected to see the start of an igloo. That was the plan, after all.

Instead, I saw a hole carved into the wall of snow. My brother’s face was poking through it while my son stood laughing uncontrollably. Then they switched — and suddenly my son’s little face appeared through the snow. He was thrilled. No igloo. Just a hole.

That picture still shows up in my memories every year.

One winter, my husband took all three boys to the big hill in town where everyone goes sledding. I tagged along — sledding has never been my thing — but watching the four of them (yes, the grown man just as giddy as the boys) race up and down that hill was pure joy. We stopped for hot chocolate on the way home. I think that was the beginning of the obsession. I now buy hot chocolate in bulk.

There was the year the snow just wouldn’t stop. It piled so high there was nowhere left to put it. The drifts reached the fence line, and suddenly the boys realized they could climb up and peer over into the neighbor’s yard. That discovery was met with a quick reminder that the yard boundaries still applied — even if the snow had erased them. They slid down those mounds like they were mountains.

After the final storm that winter — I think we were somewhere near 19 feet of snow in a month — a tunnel was born. The snow was packed so tightly we initially worried about collapse, but it was solid as concrete. While my husband and the boys carved it out, I dug a lawn chair out from the back patio, which may have been just as hard.

When they finished and began running through the tunnel, I set my chair into the snowbank and just watched. The sound of their laughter carried through that tunnel, and I knew — even then — it was a moment I’d want to hold onto.

That same year, as I shoveled the front walk (I truly do love shoveling), one of the twins came stumbling out with a shovel nearly twice his size, determined to help. I knew “help” from a five-year-old would likely double my workload, but we shoveled anyway. He gave up eventually and switched to snow angels — and the occasional snowball thrown in my direction.

His green jacket. Black boots. Pom-pom hat. Gigantic smile.

Still clear as day.

There was also the snowball-to-the-street incident. We lived on a main road, and the brilliant idea that year was to throw snowballs — not at each other — but onto the street. No cars or people were harmed, as the plan was shut down quickly. Another parenting conversation I never anticipated having. Having three boys, I should have known better. And no, it was not the last creative decision they made.

A few years ago, we moved to a larger yard — complete with a hill, a wall (important detail), and neighbors with boys the same age. After one storm, five bundled-up boys raced up and down that hill with sleds, laughter echoing through the yard. Later, a full snowball war broke out — some on one side of the wall, some on the other — snow flying everywhere. It was chaos and joy in equal measure.

I wish I had taken a picture. But again, it lives clearly in my mind.

Today, it’s 10:00 a.m., and they’re still in bed.

No sleds.
No shovels.
No snowballs.
No laughter — at least not yet.

The quiet where laughter once lived hits harder than I ever expected. No one tells you when the last snowstorm of sledding, tunnels, and snow angels will happen. No one announces when it will quietly be replaced by sleeping in and computer games.

Maybe this is part of the messy middle of motherhood — the space between chaos and quiet. One season you’re exhausted from bundling boots and mittens. The next, you’re standing in the stillness, surprised at how much you miss the noise.

For those still in the thick of boots and mittens and snowball fights — pause. Join them. Or at least have the kettle ready.

I was told years ago, “It goes by fast.” I nodded politely at the time. Now I understand.

Pause long enough to experience it. To step into the frame. To be part of the memory.

And maybe keep a snowball tucked aside to launch when they aren’t looking.

After all, the goal is still to win.

With love,
Margaelin

Because even the strongest hearts need somewhere to rest
Seen. Held. Understood.