It didn't snow at all before Christmas, and then as soon as we left for Connecticut it was a blizzard.
That might be an exaggeration, although George would tell you that driving in it—leaving, as we did, at midnight in a vain attempt to beat the weather—was something like being inside that old screen saver with the stars that shoot past.
We returned to more than a foot of snow and a sidewalk that—thankfully—one of our neighbors had shoveled. Julia and Asher wanted to play in it immediately, but it was nearly 2 o'clock in the morning, so they went back to sleep while awaiting a more reasonable hour to go outside.
Santa brought sleds—two round flying saucers, like the ones we used last year when we went sledding with our friends on the big hill in Simsbury—but our yard lacks a hill. But it does have a set of stairs from the back porch to the yard, and on that Papa built a little snow ramp that our two climbed up and slid down, over and over, all weekend long.
They don't need much, do they, to enjoy themselves for hours at a time? A few sleds, a bit of snow, and some hot cocoa waiting for them when they come inside to warm up, and they're perfectly happy. There's a lesson in there somewhere, I think...
