"We should take the kids and Bongo out for a walk." Said J.
I tried to do my best I'm invisible impression by sinking as far into the back of the sofa as possible and pulling a blanket over me.
"Really? Is that a good idea?"
I looked out and saw roads, roofs and trees covered in what looked like thirty inches of snow and more falling from the sky.
"If we don't go out when it's -14, we'll never go out when it's -25."
He made a good point, but still, not going out was tempting. I thought about whether staying inside for the next four months - just riding it out in our pajamas with mugs of hot chocolate and movies - would really be such a bad thing.
Nevertheless, we got ready to go out, bundling the kids up in so many layers it was difficult to tell whether there were still people under there. Oliver, who could hardly move, lay on the kitchen floor as though making a snow angel, arms and legs flapping helplessly.
About twenty five minutes after we left the house, we returned, unable to venture any further into the deep snow with the kids, who were constantly falling over, face-forward in the snow, begging to be carried, and losing gloves every second. Bongo was happy - he merrily rolled in the snow, covering his fur and whiskers in white sprinkles.
Back inside, sweating and a little screwy from the whole kerfuffle, there's a slight chance I might have muttered something along the lines of "I'm NEVER bloody going out for a walk AGAIN!".
Me = Grinch.
But, later, when we were settled down for the evening, I was looking back through the pictures I'd taken of our walk. And there it was, the miracle of photographs. Instead of all the turmoil - all the getting clothes on and off, wiping runny noses, slips and falls, sweating, etc., I saw a different story: two happy little boys, exploring in the snow, making snowballs, giggling, playing, enjoying it. And I'll bet in a year's time, or ten year's time, that's all I'll remember.