It wasn't.
My five-year-old daughter was nearly crying about the possibility of not being able to go to school that day. It was the first day the kindergarten children would be able to eat lunch in the cafeteria. Plus, it was a show-and-tell day. She needed to be there.
We lived in a tiny, old, cinder-block home our landlords called "the icicle." It was at the end of a long private lane behind our landlord's massive garage. Ken plowed the lane himself with his own small four-wheeler. There was no way he'd have the road clear before it was time for school to start. We lived fairly far from the school. Our little car was snowed in. If my daughter was going to school, we'd have to walk.
We had three small girls when we lived in that place: a tiny two-year-old who had Down Syndrome and wasn't yet walking, a four-year-old preschooler, and our five-year-old who would soon be turning six. My husband had already left to trudge through the snow to catch a bus to the university, so I was on my own. My daughter was too young to walk there alone even when the sun was shining. We'd received special permission to go to this school, so it wasn't like she could ride with a neighbor.
We bundled up. I put the girls in snowsuits. I figured the only way I could get there was to put our youngest in a baby hiking backpack that had a sunshade. Now it would have to act as a snow shade. It wouldn't keep the snow off her face, but it would surely help. I would pull the four-year-old on a sled. I'd hold the five-year-old's hand. It would be an adventure. That could be fun, right?
It started out feeling possible. The snow was so deep that we had to walk in car tracks in the middle of the unplowed streets. Very few cars braved the way. It was a total blizzard. The wind was blowing the snow into our faces hard and fast.
When we were about half way to the school, I didn't know if we'd make it. I could barely see because my glasses were wet and fogged up. I turned to look over my shoulder at my daughter in the backpack. She was gasping as snow blew into her face. The snow shade had come undone and her hat had blown off. Snowflakes stuck to her eyelashes and her blond, duckling hair was sticking straight up and covered with melting white. The daughter in the sled was grimacing and also covered with snow. The sled was getting heavier. How could I keep going? My five-year-old still looked determined. Turning back wasn't an option.
Then I thought of Utah pioneers. They'd pushed handcarts for miles through winter storms with less clothing than we wore. Many lost their lives along the way. Surely this was a character-building experience. I could do this.
By the time we walked into the coat and backpack area at the school, a few minutes late, the teacher was surprised to see us.
"They should have cancelled school," she said. "They're going to let the students go home early today."
School would be over in an hour. The kindergarteners weren't going to have lunch in the cafeteria after all. We could have stayed home.
I didn't want to leave my daughter there and come back. There was no way I was going to make it home and back again in an hour.
"Do you mind if we stay?" I asked. The teacher agreed.
I sat down amid wet boots and backpacks with my miserable, wet-haired two-year-old. That's when I found out my oldest daughter forgot to bring her show-and-tell toy.
It turned out okay. My four-year-old was allowed to join the class to be the show-and-tell for her very happy older sister.
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