The morning of first snowfall

"Can we go outside?"

Your voices summon me from my warm bed

at the first sight of snow.

Groggy, I bundle you in layers,

see which snow boots still fit from last year,

and make myself a coffee.

Our neighbors are parents and grandparents,

so they understand your excitement

and will tolerate the early morning yells and giggles.

"Watch this, daddy!"

"Look at this!"

"Over here!"

My attention is drawn to each of you

as you show me your snow angels

and snow creatures (is that a dragon?)

and the way you slide down the steep hill.

It didn't happen unless someone sees it, I am reminded,

and so I watch,

and witness,

and validate,

my eyes following the puffballs on each of your beanies

as they zip across the snowy hills by our house.

I'm grateful to cheer and clap for you,

to celebrate with you.

By the time we break for hot chocolate,

I'm out of breath from chasing you,

I can't feel my fingertips,

my ears are burning,

and my face looks like a ruddy pear.

The boots and gloves come off

and the jackets, too.

Inevitably one of us falls over

trying to pull our legs out of our snow pants.

And as we sit by the fire together,

and warm back up,

and laugh and smile,

I'm reminded again what a gift it is to be your dad.

And even if I might have liked to sleep a bit longer,

or keep my feet warm under blankets instead of frozen in boots,

there's no time for that on the first day of snow.

"Let's go," you cheer,

and I get ready for another round.