Snow Day

a.k.a. The Great Ohio Snowpocalypse That Wasn’t

There’s a certain tone your phone takes when a real winter storm is coming. Not the “light accumulation expected” nonsense. I’m talking about the serious alerts. The ones where meteorologists stop smiling, the graphics turn purple, and the phrase “historic snowfall” gets tossed around like it’s no big deal.

That’s when my brain flips the switch.

I’m a prepare-for-the-worst, hope-for-the-best guy. Always have been. Not in a doomsday bunker way—more in a “let’s make sure no one’s crying because we ran out of snacks” way. So when Ohio decided to dump a couple feet of snow on us, we did what any reasonable family does: stocked up just enough to survive without turning the pantry into a Costco aisle.

Food for the kids. Nothing wild.
A case of water.
Extra snacks.
Chargers, batteries, candles.
The adult version of saying, “We’ll be fine… probably.”

You don’t want to panic. But you also don’t want to be the guy melting snow in a pot because you forgot water and the kids are asking why dinner is “sad.”

Thankfully, we didn’t lose power. Which immediately puts you in a weird emotional space where you’re relieved but also slightly disappointed because now all your preparation feels dramatic. Like wearing a life vest in the kiddie pool.

But then morning came.

And the snow was… a lot.

Not the cute dusting kind. Not the “this’ll melt by noon” kind. This was real snow. The kind that changes how sound works. The kind that makes your neighborhood feel quieter and heavier and a little unreal. You look outside and everything is white and still, like the world hit pause without asking anyone’s permission.

And then the kids see it.

That’s the moment.

The toddler lost her mind. Pure joy. Immediate obsession. She pressed her face to the window like she’d just discovered a new planet. She wanted outside now. Didn’t care that it was freezing. Didn’t care that the wind chill was flirting with dangerous. Snow existed, therefore she needed to be in it.

We compromised. Bundled her up like a marshmallow in witness protection. The boots were on the wrong feet at least once. Gloves immediately rejected. Hat tolerated for thirty seconds.

Outside, the snow was up to her waist.

Watching a toddler try to walk through waist-high snow is comedy you can’t script. Every step is a gamble. She fell every five seconds, popped back up laughing, and kept going like gravity was optional. No frustration. No fear. Just joy and face-plants.

She rode a sled.
She threw snowballs with zero accuracy but maximum confidence.
She made snow angels that were more like snow smudges.

And I realized something quietly heavy in the middle of all that chaos: she’s never really had a snow like this. Not one she could experience. Not one that felt big and magical and real. This wasn’t just weather. This was a core memory loading in real time.

The baby, on the other hand, was not about that life.

Negative wind chills and infants don’t mix, so his snow day was indoors—but somehow just as magical. He has discovered the window. More specifically, the window is now his favorite channel.

I’ll stand him up on the sill, and he grips the sash like he’s anchoring himself to reality. He stares out at the white world, yelling and talking and pointing like he’s narrating a nature documentary only he can see. Now he points at the window when he wants to look. His face lights up every single time.

To him, the world has changed color.

Everything he knew is suddenly white. Bright. New. And you can see his brain working overtime trying to process it. It’s wild to watch someone experience something for the very first time—and realize you’re standing right next to them for it.

Meanwhile, the dog had her own plans.

I went out back and shoveled a perfect path for her. Straight line. Clear. Thoughtful. Efficient. A gift, really. She ignored it completely.

She ran to the opposite side of the patio. Played. Did her business where I hadn’t shoveled a damn thing. Looked at me like this is on you.

Nothing builds character like manual labor followed by immediate disrespect.

The driveway got half shoveled. That’s all I had in me. It’s cold, my lungs hate me, and every time I shovel I’m convinced this is how it ends. We can get in and out. That’s good enough. Survival, not aesthetics.

And honestly? It was fun.

There’s something about a storm like that. You’re nervous going into it—because let’s be real, when it’s that cold and that snowy, a lot can go wrong. Power outages. Frozen pipes. The constant mental checklist of “Is everyone warm? Is everyone safe?”

But when nothing bad happens? When you get to just be inside, together, watching snow fall and kids discover joy and dogs ruin your plans?

That’s when it hits you.

This is the stuff.

Not the Instagram-worthy moments. Not the curated highlights. Just being stuck at home, slightly inconvenienced, laughing at small things, watching your kids experience the world in ways you can’t recreate later.

We’re ready for it to melt. Let’s not pretend otherwise. I’m mentally done with winter. But from the looks of it, the snow’s sticking around a bit longer. So we’ll bundle up again. Go back out. Fall down. Laugh. Make a few more memories before it all turns to slush and schedules and normal life again.

And someday, years from now, the kids won’t remember the forecast or the prep or the shoveling. They’ll remember the snow that felt bigger than them. The day the world turned white. The time Dad slipped a little but played anyway.

That’s enough.

That’s more than enough.

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Snow Day Warm-Up (because survival deserves a reward)

A drink for when the kids are finally asleep, the house is quiet, and your back reminds you you’re not 25 anymore.

Ingredients
– 2 oz dark rum
– ¾ oz cinnamon maple syrup
– ½ oz Amaro Montenegro
– ¾ oz fresh apple cider
– 2 dashes orange bitters

Instructions
Heat gently on the stove (don’t boil it—this isn’t a science experiment).
Pour into a mug.
Sip slowly while staring out at the snow like you definitely didn’t complain about it all day.

Tastes like warmth, earned the hard way.

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