This morning, at 5:30, I was woken by the call I most dread, the one from my school district with the joyous news that my children will be home with me . . .all day . . .bored . . .and whining.

My daughter bounded up from the breakfast table, into her snow pants and out the door to make snowmen. Yes, they are still called snowmen; snow people just sounds so wrong.

We live one suburban back yard away from a huge barren depression in the landscape retention field where the neighborhood children sled. My daughter started her part of the snowman in our back yard; her friend started the other part in her backyard. The intent was to meet in the field for assembly.

“How’s your snow man?” I asked my daughter on her return.

“Oh, by the time I got to the field, my part was so heavy we couldn’t lift it, so we just left the parts next to each other and made snow boobs.”