There are millions of stars shining brightly in the clear mountain air. The snow sparkles in the moonlight, and the dead of night proves to be unexpectedly bright, with the mountains' silhouette still sharply contrasting against the skyline. The white dusted trees tower over both sides of the trail, and three and a half feet of undisturbed snow covers the path ahead in a crisp, pristine blanket it pains me to disturb.
It is mid-night and two degrees below zero.
The night is so quiet; it's loud, apart from the squabbling behind me. The kids are grumbling at each other, wrestling with their snow gear and backpacks. My daughter falls waist-deep in snow, losing her snowshoe and a boot. We all stop to help her dig it out. There are tears, and for a fleeting moment, I regret I pressured my family into such a trip.
It was Christmas vacation. But, for the last several months, I've been sick. And for the first time in my life, I've been a kind of exhausted even I can't talk myself through - the sort of sick which might one day defeat me. So, my husband and I went to great lengths to give our kids the Christmas they had their hearts set on. I wanted to compensate for my parenting shortcomings, which coincided with my physical exhaustion, and bring some joy to an otherwise overwhelmingly dark year. With so many uncertainties ahead, it seemed like a good plan. Yet, as the boxes laid unwrapped and the bickering quickly resumed, the sinking feeling in my stomach rose to the top, and I could not help but think I missed the mark.
We had tried Christmas their way. It was time to try it ours. I refused to be the reason we resorted to celebrating Christmas in line with the cultural norm. Christmas at the cabin was a family tradition. So, with only a few hours' notice, we rented a car and made the 12-hour trek to the mountains. We drove the car as far as we can without getting stuck in the snow, then started off on a hike to the cabin, which leads us to the moment where my kids are tearing up in the snow, freezing their butts off.
I love every minute of it.
Don't report me to CPS; I am not altogether a terrible mother. They have proper gear, and honestly, the only thing they are truly in danger of is discomfort, which is good for them. My kids need more suffering. I think in an effort to provide them with a decent upbringing and overcompensate for my childhood, I have inadvertently made them weak.
Still, I must admit, though we frequently stop to regain our breath in the high altitude, it is still a challenging, cold walk as we work to break through the snow carrying our packs and dragging our gear. I quietly listen to the grumbles behind me, only intervening when the arguing severally threatens morale. As I suspect, most of the quarrels sort themselves out, and ever so slowly, we are all hiking in silence. I start to smile as I hear them working as a team to maneuver the sled through the snow, and as we all come closer to our goal, the grumbles fully transition to laughter. We make it to the cabin and spend another hour joyfully telling stories around the fire.
This is exactly what I wanted for Christmas. My kids to work together towards a common goal, to realize they are stronger than they give themselves credit for, to understand that what lies behind uncomfortable is truly obtainable, worth fighting for, and often priceless.
In the months ahead, there is still much mourning to be done and uncertainties to navigate. But because we were willing to be uncomfortable, we were able to finish out a dreadful year all bundled up together in one of the most incredible places on earth, free from electronic screens, Wi-Fi, and running water.
And I cannot help but reflect, as we drive back to our beautiful home, how wonderful it was to walk away from more in pursuit of less.
