Sledding Adventure
“It Was a Silent Night…”
Snow Day. Just a few days before Christmas. For any working mom—or really, any mom—it might as well be a full-blown natural disaster.
I looked around my house at all the projects I had planned for the day, slowly realizing they were slipping away as the reality of four kids at home hit me like a snowball to the chest. Boxes of Christmas decorations still waiting to be hung. Laundry piled up like miniature mountains. Groceries to buy, meals to plan, gifts to wrap, cards to address, and emails relentlessly stacking in my inbox. Every single thought seemed to trigger a new wave of anxiety. And of course, the ever-present, unrelenting truth: kids need to eat. Every… hour… on… the… hour.
I took a deep breath, determined to tackle the next right thing on my list, only to be interrupted by the soft, hopeful voice of my six-year-old, Carolina:
“Can we go sledding?!”
“Absolutely, in just a little while,” I said, offering a small reprieve. “How about a Christmas movie first?”
“Yay! Will you watch it with us?”
“Yes, in just a bit,” I replied, secretly hoping they’d forget and I might steal a few minutes for myself. And for a while, it worked. I got a little done. But soon enough, the chorus returned.
“Can we pleeease go sledding?” whined my eight-year-old, Sofia.
“Yep, in just a little while. How about writing a letter to Santa?” I suggested, hoping my 10-year-old son would help the little girls so I could finally tackle a few lingering chores. Lucky for me, one thing led to another. They drew, they played, they fought, they played some more—and somehow, hours disappeared.
Before I knew it, the clock read 4:30 pm. The sun was dipping low, casting long blue-gray shadows across the freshly fallen snow. The hush of dusk wrapped our backyard in a quiet glow.
“Mama, can we go sledding now?”
It was now or never.
“Yes, of course. Get dressed. I’ll watch you from the window,” I said.
“But Mama, we want you to come with us.” Their little eyes shone, wide and pleading.
I paused. I looked around the chaos: boxes still unpacked, dishes in the sink, dinner untouched, snow-day mess everywhere. My mental checklist screamed, but then I heard a different voice—a whisper, gentle yet insistent: How much longer will they want to do this with you?
My mind immediately went to my almost thirteen-year-old, my first baby, who had recently told me she no longer believed in Santa. Not this year, not for two years. I remembered her rushing downstairs on Christmas morning long before her siblings were awake, scanning the kitchen to see if the carrots and cookies she’d left out were gone. My heart ached for a brief, sharp moment. And then I smiled. “Guess what you’re doing tonight?” I asked. And just like that, our newest elf was born.
Because this is how it always is… the “little whiles” become tomorrows, the tomorrows become weeks, and the weeks slip into years in the blink of an eye. Everyone says it, but only when you feel it yourself does it sink in. Before long, they are taller than you, stronger than you, busier than you, and their lives overflow with priorities that don’t include you.
But in that quiet, snowy moment, I realized this was no longer an “I have to.” This was an “I get to.” Because there are thousands of women who pray they’ll get to, and they never do. Mothers who wait for moments with children who aren’t there. Families struggling through loss. Children too sick for sledding. Moms working late nights. Treatments that go on. Holidays split apart. And grief that runs deep.
So I dropped it all. I put on my boots, my gloves, my hat, and we went. Isn’t that what this season is truly about? Dropping everything to see the extraordinary in the ordinary?
As we climbed our backyard hill under the dimming sky, the cold, crisp air filling my lungs, I watched them throw themselves down again and again, leaving perfect little snow angels behind. Their laughter, sharp and joyful, echoed through the bare trees lit by the rising moon. And in that moment, surrounded by the ordinary chaos of winter, it was the most peaceful place on Earth. A moment to breathe, to be still, and to witness the miracle I often take for granted. My silent night.
I took a mental photograph, tucking it carefully into the memory bank of my Christmases. I knew they would remember this day, too—not the gifts, not the wrapping paper, not the ornaments—but the love, the laughter, and the messy, colorful, comforting chaos of a post-Christmas evening. And it didn’t bother me one bit.
So, drop everything and go. Every chance you get. While you still can.
Because extraordinary happens quietly, in ordinary moments. And that… that will always be your best “yes” yet.
