The Dad parted the blinds and looked down from his second story bedroom, “It must have snowed again overnight.” He thought, frowning, “More shoveling.” He allowed the blind to drop back into place, but it didn’t drop enough. There was a sliver of sunlight still shooting into the room. His wife grumbled, rolled over and pulled the bedsheets up tighter. She was not feeling well that day. It was January first and despite having only one glass of wine at midnight, they were hungover. “One glass of wine.” He thought before it occurred to him that they were up past ten. They were hungover from staying up too late. “Up too late. Is it possible that this is from staying up too late? Seriously?” He thought as he nudged the blind back into place. His thoughts were now on coffee, he would watch the news, maybe read his book. But more than that, he was thinking of enjoying some alone time – having an entire freaking cup of coffee uninterrupted. He stepped out of the bedroom, the girl’s bedroom door was cracked open and there was movement. He paused, watching the movement. His youngest then bolted out of the bedroom, she began talking loudly about having to pee, of hunger, of wanting a candy cane for breakfast. “Stop shouting Hun! You’ll wake up the entire family. Head downstairs to pee, no candy canes for breakfast. I’ll make you some oatmeal.” So much for that uninterrupted coffee.

As she ate her oatmeal, he dumped out the cold second half of his first cup of coffee. That was when the older daughter appeared right behind him, seemingly out of nowhere. The Dad suppressed a high-pitched scream of fright at how quickly she seemed to materialize. She was livid about being woken up early by her pesky little sister.

“Don’t do that. Regina.” He mumbled, knowing she’d do it again as he prepared a second bowl of oatmeal, “it’s still hot. Blow on it.”

After two hours of high-pitched chattering and conflict, “We want to play outside Daddy.” The daughters said in unison.

He groaned internally, “It’s probably a good idea,” The now awake sick wife chimed in. “They’ve been at each other’s throats all morning. Think of how well they’ll sleep tonight.”

(They did not sleep well that night, but that’s another story)

Thirty minutes later the Dad and his two daughters stepped out into the cold, “Actually, it’s kinda warm today.” He thought. They walked to the hill at the end of their street and all three stopped in their tracks. There stood a huge snowman. It must have been more than six feet tall. He concluded that it must have been built by those neighbors with the teenagers. They must have built it after yesterday’s snow. “Well-done neighbors!” He thought.

“Daddy, when we’re done sledding, can we build one that’s even taller?”

“#$@% you neighbors.” He thought.

The girls knew not the intricacies of building snowmen, nor did they know how adult knees react to cold weather. They only knew their instincts for play and he was the provider of the sleds, the provider of play. They watched him intently as he tightened the binding straps of the oldest one’s snowboard and plopped the younger one on her never-before-used plastic dish. After thirty minutes of watching them sliding down with delight and climbing back up with dramatic effort, they announced that they were ready to build that snowman.

It had been years since he had last built a snowman. “Make sure you pack the snow tightly, or you will fail.” the child version of himself said. He ignored the advice and warning from his more experienced child form, he even laughed. The daughters watched intently and with grand expectation. He was the provider of sleds, of play and now, the provider of snowmen.

The snow was not as good for packing as he was hoping. His oldest daughter could not get the base started, it wasn’t rolling into a giant snowball. He had to step in, he had to break out his snow shovel, the new one that had lost its novelty weeks earlier. He began piling the snow. Tamping it down each time, losing ninety percent of each shovelful each time. “This will take a while” he thought. As he labored, he felt irritation kicking in, “just one uninterrupted cup of coffee. That was all I wanted.” he thought. He tamped a little too hard and the entire pile fell apart. “Stupid dry fluff” he thought. “Couldn’t we get a bit more heavy sticky wet stuff last night?” In time the pile was nearly waist-high. His lower back was getting sore. He heard a scream in the distance and immediately kicked into protective dad mode. It turned out to be a scream of delight. His daughters had resumed sledding. He was alone, out in the cold (it actually was kinda warm that day). He wiped a frozen booger off his stubbled mustache and continued shoveling, tamping, shoveling, tamping.

He was losing function. His brain was tired and hungover (seriously? From being up too late? Ugh.). His body was now running on sheer willpower and muscle memory. He called for the girls to come help. They came immediately and nearly destroyed all that he had been working on. He closed his eyes and quietly said a serenity prayer.

The shovel had become discarded. He became frantic, desperate to make progress. He was on his knees, picking the snow up with his gloved hands (they were fleece gloves. Totally inappropriate for the job). The gloves had become soaked and began freezing.

Ignoring the cold (actually, with the wet gloves, it was getting a bit nippy) he continued piling and tamping the snow.

“Do we have to keep working on the snowman?” The oldest daughter asked.

“Yes!” He snapped back. He quickly looked across the street, his neighbor hastily resumed shoveling his driveway. “Yes Hun. We’re going to do this.”

“It’s hard work.” Upon hearing that, he shot her such a look that she quickly grabbed another handful of snow and began patting it down. “It looks like the bottom is done. What about his middle?”

The Dad paused and stared. The middle…he was only one third through this undertaking. “Make sure you pack the snow tightly, or you will fail.” his child version’s words echoed in his thoughts. He was so arrogant, he laughed at those words. He thought this would be a simple task, he assumed this was a life skill gained early that needed no practice nor refinement. His pride, his arrogance, his assumptions, his sugar-coated memories and his underestimations were becoming his downfall. His mouth drew tight and he poked his finger into the snowman’s side and began gouging out a waistline. His daughter lit up, “Oh! I see what we’re doing! Can I make its neck?”

“Of course Sweetie.” he muttered. His gloves were wet and cold. His scarf had fallen open. His cold phone was no longer recognizing the SIM Card and his lower back was sore.

“How about you two finish this?” He said with his last breath of mustered perkiness. The snowman defeated him.

“How are the girls?” His wife asked as he pulled his boots off.

“They’re getting along, I think.” He replied.

“How’s the snowman?”

“See for yourself. They are adding arms and the face. They will be asking you for a hat and carrot soon.”

He hobbled to the couch, holding his lower back, thinking about how frantically he began throwing snow on it.

He was bound to sleep anyway, and he might as well take it decently. With this newfound peace of mind came the first glimmerings of drowsiness. A good idea, he thought, to sleep off the lower back pain. It was like taking an anesthetic.

“You were right, young boy; you were right,” the Dad mumbled to the younger version of himself.

Then the Dad drowsed off into what seemed like the most comfortable and satisfying sleep he had ever known.