It has been two years since we had a layer of snow where I live. There were children who danced in their yards, and made snow angels. My daughter managed to build a snowman as tall as she is, though she had help. Schools closed their doors, and children were left to their sleds and hot cocoa. 

 

The older set had to mitigate the effects, however beautiful. Stereotypes are such that luckily no one expects me to shovel the driveway. I have no intention of shattering that glass ceiling. 

 

One of Benjamin's favorite stories is Frosty the Snowman. He laughs at Professor Hinkle, the magician who wants Frosty's hat. In the end, the professor changes his mind about Frosty, which is probably what appeals to Ben. He is a huge fan of transformation. 

 

Winter is itself a crash course in transformation. Green gives way to white. Smooth paths succumb to slipperiness. Polo shirts get pushed to the back of the drawer, and thick sweaters come out of storage. 

 

But unless you live in Alaska, which three of our kids have, it is likely that warm weather will eventually prevail. Which feels like tangible, visual, sensory proof that even my most icy moods will melt under the Sun.