We spent the afternoon playing outside with the kids on what felt like the perfect winter day.

The sun was shining, it was snowing, the light fluffy kind, not the sleet that slices your retina while you stare at the ground and run for the first cup of hot chocolate kind. Or the kind that takes perfectly smooth, dry hair and clumps it into several scouring pad-like sponges capable of scrubbing the toughest, baked on stains.

We made a super slick toboggan run, pulled the baby on a sleigh while she filled her mittens with snow and laughed when snowflakes landed on her cheeks.

We were having so much fun in fact, we wanted to world to know it. We started wandering down our street with no destination in mind. We were loving life, loving snow, loving winter, loving this day.

We found an amazing trail with a hill for sledding that continued across a frozen lake. We took turns climbing the hill with our sleds, holding a rope to get us up the rather steep slope.

The first run was fantastic, full of gleeful squeals and a few “My turn next?” from the baby.

Second run—injury (Ellie), third run—injury and lost glove (Hanna), fourth run—big injury, knees, finger (Greg).

Greg somehow managed to fall, knees first off the sled half way down the hill. I knew from the scream and the log roll the rest of the way down, we were in trouble.  The log roll of course gave the baby hope that Greg was paying attention when she demonstrated what she had learned her first week at gymnastics.

Our perfect day was sidelined.

We decided to split up. Hanna, Chloe and I would head home to pick up a vehicle to come back and drive Greg home as he didn’t think he could walk. Ellie stayed with Greg to keep him company and hold his undivided attention to describe her narrowed down, seven birthday party options for her sixth birthday celebration.

I pulled Chloe in her sleigh through the thickest, heaviest pile of snow I’ve ever had to hike through. What happened to our perfect path?

Hanna was complaining she was getting cold. I thought it was assumed there would be no complaining on our perfect day?

I stopped to take a break from pulling, cognisant I had left an injured husband and a hopeful five year old making every second count towards convincing her Dad that buying the claw arcade game for her birthday was not in the “want” category but the “must.”

Pausing to catch my breath seemed to make Hanna panic. She thought I was going to pass out, perhaps because I said, “I think I’m going to pass out” and she feared she was going to have to make some big decisions and fast. Should she run for help? Should she knock on someone’s door? Should she return to Daddy and Ellie? How was she going to do all of this with her Mom slung over her shoulder in a fireman’s carry?

When did it start getting so dark? When did my boots start leaking? Where did Hanna dump her sled? Was Greg joking when he said, “This is totally coyote season.”

We were hating winter, hating snow, hating this day.

We made it home, grabbed the keys for the van and after a quick hot chocolate, picked up Greg and Ellie. I used my hair to scrub the dinner dishes and the kids complained the scalding bath water was too hot while they shivered on the bath mat that they were too cold.

Dear Winter, a nearly perfect day—we’re done now.