Fun is all relative

It doesn't snow where I live. Ever. But one of the joys of California is that you are never very far from the snow, the beach, camping, or quality aromatherapy products. Today we drove a few hours up to the nearest Sno-Park ™ so my kids could see the snow for the first time. As we packed the snow saucers, I had visions of my husband and myself laughing as we glided down powdery hills, each holding a child squealing in delight. As we packed cozy mittens and tiny boots, I imagined the snowman we would build together. As I tucked my little girls' curls beneath her warm cap, I envisioned the snow angels she would make.
We arrived at the park around 10 a.m. In the parking lot, we dressed the children in turtlenecks and pants, socks and boots, snowbibs and hoodies, parkas and earmuffs, sunglasses and gloves. My son was particularly enchanting in his sister's hand-me-down powder blue snowpants and pink cherry-dappled boots. Forty five minutes later, we hiked to the snow play area in the glaring sun, shedding parkas and earmuffs, and stuffing our pockets with discarded sunglasses and unwanted gloves. When we arrived at the play area, my son was wearing only one boot. My husband backtracked, finding the bubble-gum hued boot immediately outside our car door. He caught up with us again, and found my daughter and I standing huddled together on the icy, extremely steep slopes, trying to avoid being hit by out-of-control saucers and sleds.
My husband and daughter scouted out a gentle slope amid the chaos, and plopping on their $6.99 blue saucer, immediately careened out of control down a pockmarked icy ravine, nearly missing a teenage girl. (OK, I am embellishing a little. They didn't miss her entirely. But she was ok.) At the same time, however, I looked up the steeper slope, keeping one hand on my son's parka hood to keep him in check. A woman on a sled came skidding down the hill at breakneck speed and I watched in horror as she neatly clipped the ankles of a woman in a gray sweater who stood with her back to the slope. Cartoon-like, the sled and rider slipped completely beneath the gray-sweatered woman as she fell, almost in slow motion, before falling flat on her back on the packed snow with a sickening "whump". She lay there a long while with people looking on and comforting her. When she finally rose, unsteadily and with the help of her husband and the apologetic sled rider, I noticed her rounded belly for the first time. She had to be 7 or 8 months pregnant. I am not the world's most religious person, but I prayed that she and her baby would be ok.
We regrouped as a family, and nervously eyeing the children whizzing past from every angle, decided that sledding was not for us. We found a clearing to build our snowman, or, at my daughter's insistence, a snow bear. After chipping at the ice first with our gloves and then with our bare hands, we finally managed to kick out a lump that looked somewhat bearlike, if you happen to be 3 years old. My daughter declared she was hungry. After less than half an hour in the snow, we headed home.
Tonight, with all the sincerity a 3-year-old can muster, my daughter told us what a great time she had today, sliding and building the bear, and seeing all the pretty snow. As I unpacked muddy mittens and damp parkas, I realized, that is all that matters.