A Lesson from a Snow Man

Long before I learned the words to “Do You Want to Build a Snowman” against my will (I have three daughters under 10 who love Frozen; if you are in a similar boat, I am sure you know the words, too), I had heard the question from my children.

Before I go further, I must confess that one of my least favorite things in the world is snow, unless I have traveled somewhere for the purpose of skiing, or some other reason to seek out snow and ice I can’t think of right now. I grew up in South Carolina, and have almost no childhood memories of snow. There was zero chance of a white Christmas and I liked it that way. After moving to Virginia, we had a few experiences of it, but as anyone who lives here knows, it shuts the whole place down real fast. In no time the admittedly beautiful white of a freshly fallen snow becomes an inconvenient, dirty mess. As an educator, the snow just creates more trouble and angst. I could go on, but I’m sure I’ve made the point that when it comes to snow, I’m not a fan.

In the last five years or so we have had more experiences with substantial snow than in my entire time in Virginia Beach (since 1986). Of course, my kids love it. I totally get it. Looking through a child’s eyes, what’s not to love about snow? So it was a couple of years ago that one snowy week my children asked, even begged me, “Do you want to build a snow man?” Though reluctant, I eventually gave in. Since we have never invested in high quality snow gear we made do with what we had: rain boots, wool gloves, multiple layers, warm hats, etc.

It always begins as a collaborative effort, but as the temptation for the kids to dive into the snow, make snow angels, throw snow balls, eat snow, etc., sets in, building a snow man suddenly becomes a one man job. My job. Did I mention I’m not a fan of snow? So finally I built a pretty lame snowman (though I dreamed of one worthy of Calvin and Hobbes; if you are unfamiliar, google Calvin and Hobbes snow men). Fortunately, my kids seemed happy enough with it, even proud of their efforts. As the pins and needles of the cold set into my fingers and toes, I beat a hasty retreat back into the house where a warm fire and a cup of cocoa awaited.

This week, as we slogged through days of winter stasis, a funny thing happened. My kids just put on their gear and headed outside on their own. They didn’t ask me if I wanted to build a snowman. My first reaction was relief. Finally, I thought, they are old enough to head outside on their own and leave me to occupy myself indoors, where it was warm. One thing about too much idle time, though, it will get you thinking. Suddenly, I found myself a little sad. How is it, I thought, that they are suddenly old enough that they don’t need me go out into the snow with them?

As both a parent and an educator, I find that nothing simultaneously provides more joy (in the pride of watching children become such amazing people) and more sadness (in knowing that their growth and progress means they are growing less and less dependent on us) than watching children grow up. It is bittersweet. And it applies to so many of the things they do: from tea parties and playing with Legos, to attending recitals and awards ceremonies, to tucking them in at night and enjoying a warm snuggle.

Just six months ago our sixth graders arrived in middle school full of anxieties and worries about everything from getting lost to opening lockers to facing bullies. Already, many of those anxieties are gone, replaced, of course, by new ones. Our eighth graders are tall and hitting their full stride of adolescence, already communicating without knowing it that they don’t need us anymore. They are ready for high school, at least in their minds.

Of course, there’s no cure for it, and there really shouldn’t be. I just know myself well enough to know that there are often times when my children want me to do something with them that I don’t really want to do that I will come up with lots of reasons not to do them (my knees are achy, I have a long list of chores, the game is on, I don’t do that thing well, etc.).

So, what’s the lesson? For me, though it’s easier said than done, maybe it’s that I need to say yes, because it’s what they want to do, because they want me to be involved with them, and because, before I know it, they might stop asking me. It really doesn’t hurt that much to say yes, does it? Of course, if it’s their safety that’s in question, or good manners, or negotiating academics and other responsibilities, then yes isn’t always the best default position. But if it’s just something they want to do because they are who they are, because they are young and energetic, because they want me to be part of it, then what really is the harm in saying yes? It’s definitely something I need to work on.

So, to my children, the next time it snows, the next time you ask me, here’s my answer:

Yes, I want to build a snowman.