I lie in my driveway and wave my arms and legs. Harry, my 11 month old border collie, jumps on top of me, mouth open, tongue hanging out, smiling. He steals my hat and runs. I give up my snow angel and try to get it back.
“Mom!” my son calls. “Pretend you are the bad guy and I am a superhero destroying your icy lair.” He stands atop a six-foot drift that the plow left behind.
I smell the fire my husband built in the kitchen hearth. My face feels cold. “Lets take our picture, head in, and eat cupcakes,” I tell him. The lure of sprinkled covered, vanilla icing trumps his superhero game.
His Dad comes out carrying a camera and our 12-week-old puppy, Tom. We endeavor to get our son and dogs to pose in front of our newly built snowman. Little Tom sinks into the drift. His black fur is coated with ice. I scoop him up, hold him and smile into the camera.
My boy and I build a snowman after every snowstorm. Then we eat cupcakes. It’s our little tradition that I offer up to my father.