There's this one section of fence in my backyard that is covered in snow in what must be the most perfect way that any fence anywhere has ever been covered in snow. The snow looks almost like a length of velvet, perfectly draped and garlanded and pooled over the fence. Robert Frost should come write eighteen rhyming couplets about my fence. Or maybe William Carlos Williams would be a better fit. Pity they are both dead and therefore not available to immortalize this particular distribution of snow on this particular bit of fence.

The soup in the crock pot is just starting to smell good, all garlic and onions and tomatoes and mixing with the orange peel left in the sink from lunch. I always hate to push the orange peels down the drain.

Mia is "resting" in her room, not sufficiently tired from shoveling our ridiculous, in parts seemingly vertical driveway to actually sleep, so instead is singing and telling herself stories and dragging her new chair around to reach all her top shelves. Owen is alternately seeking out his favorite toys (cow key chain that lights up and moos, medicine dropper from a defunct bottle of Infant's Motrin, universal remote) and then crawling back in search of another bite of banana or spoonful of applesauce or to request another boost to visit the crock pot, with which he is obsessed.

The kids are all home from school and out trying to make snowmen out of this impossible snow that drifts and flakes apart as soon as you push it together. Soon, the cars will start, moving slowly, lights on, as my neighbors make their early returns from work. And dark will come early too, sneaking down out of the all-day-gray skies. Finally, the shovels will stop scraping and I'll tuck the children into bed and Mia will say "Remember, Mommy? Remember when you buried me in all that snow?" And I'll say, "Yes, Bean. That was just this morning, I remember." And she'll say "Good."

Good.