Snow Days: Timeline of a Family Vacation

Day 1 - Departure (mood: cheerful)

It’s a Friday and we’re not at work or school. Daddy and I have packed up for a two-night stay in Central Oregon, including some fun in the snow. Our son has never gotten to play in snow more than two inches deep, and he is here for it. He’s in his booster seat bundled into a fluffy blanket (which I got for Christmas but has now been deemed his), the puppy next to him on her bed, iPad in his hands. I am racking up data charges using my phone as an Internet hotspot so he can watch YouTube videos while we drive across the mountains. As we get farther out of our valley-bound city and climb higher in elevation, his dad and I encourage him to look up from his videos and admire the view: evergreen forests, snowy peaks, trunks darkened from last year’s wildfire, rivers, dams, and lakes. He happily complies, which isn’t always a given. His belly is full from lunchtime pizza.

The dog barfs in the backseat when the roads get really curvy. She may be the only one not having a great time.

Day 1 - Recreation (mood: excited)

We bought a cheap, saucer-style sled on the way out of town, waiting for this moment. I’ve piloted the family SUV over plowed but slushy roads, with ten-foot walls of snow on either side, to get to our first Sno-Park. I’ve never been to one of these places, but I did my research and bought our permit ahead of time. Sno-Parks are state-managed areas in the mountains where people can get out of their cars to sled, snowshoe, or cross-country ski in the woods adjacent to the parking lot. We secure the kiddo in his snow bib, and the dog in her harness, and trudge to the top a nearby hill with a grade that looks friendly for a six-year-old. We follow a smoothed-over path where other kids have probably gone sledding today. Our son sits on the plastic saucer, grips the handles, and grins as his dad gives him a push. The grin intensifies as he squeals down the hill, our puppy running next to him. This is our pup’s first time in the snow, and she handles it like a pro. My son picks up his sled and asks to go again and again and again (his words). It’s like a more exotic version of the playground slide or swings, which he also likes to do over and over and over.

I take a bunch of photos, satisfied because this is exactly the vacation I hoped for. Even the weather is cooperative. It is clear and relatively warm, and my new tire chains remain unopened, tucked away in case the weather changes sometime this weekend.

My son tries his best to make a snow angel before we head back to the car.

Day 1 - Nesting (mood: lethargic, then OMG)

Although we outfitted our son with coveralls and boots, we didn’t do the whole getup with scarf, hat, and gloves. Suddenly he complains of feeling cold and tired, and wants to be carried back to the car. We refuse because he’s getting heavy and we don’t want to slip on the snow while holding him. (Also we think he’s being a little dramatic.) He starts being sluggish and sits limply in his car seat, which we needle him to correct so we can fasten the seatbelt. We feed him some water and start the car, then he seems to cheer up. He chatters about the hotel, to which we’re heading now, being our home for the next two nights. He says he doesn’t really like hotels but he does like them. (Don’t ask me.) We arrive “home” twenty minutes later to a quiet, spacious room with a jacuzzi tub. The kiddo runs around to check things out. We open the patio curtains to a happy surprise—there’s an alpaca farm just next door! They watch us curiously as they chew on their grassy dinner. When we let our dog out on the back lawn, six or seven of them crowd the fence to take a look. Our son goes out, too, and says hi to them.

We find a nearby restaurant that has agreeable food and cocktails for adults, and pizza for the kid, who will eat almost nothing else. We extend the limit on his iPad time because we’re on vacation, and it’s a good thing because the wait staff are taking forever. But the food is very good.

Everyone seems to go to bed satisfied.

Day 2 - Breakfast (mood: easy to please)

There is free breakfast at the hotel with standard fare. My husband and I tolerate watery eggs and stale biscuits, but our son is very happy with a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios. We even find little travel packets of Nutella so we can make Nutella toast, which he has just about every day at (our actual) home.

Day 2 - Second breakfast (mood: cranky)

We take the three-minute drive into town to visit a renowned local bakery and hopefully get some decent coffee. I am a pastry fiend, so I’m excited. My son is excited too, until I ask the clerk about their ingredients and find they have nothing compatible with my son’s egg allergy. As is often the case, the only breakfast-y thing he can eat is an oat bar. They also have Rice Krispie treats, but my son longs for a donut and won’t accept any substitutes. He throws his head onto his arms. This is now the worst day ever. He even refuses chocolate milk, but we buy one anyway, accurately predicting that he’ll change his mind later. I try not to enjoy my pastry too much in front of him.

Day 2 - Sledding (mood: happy again)

After taking some time to relax in our hotel room, we’re ready for more fun in the snow. I repack the cold-weather necessities, plus two pairs of snowshoes that I rented just for the heck of it: one for adult feet and one for kid feet. My son whines a little about the fact that we have to drive 26 minutes back to the Sno-Parks, and that we aren't bringing the iPad. We disembark at a snowy area across the highway from the park we went to yesterday. It's Saturday, and we find tons of families enjoying the area with all manner of sleds and inner tubes. To head off complains about cold, we bundle up our son more heavily than we did the day before, although this day is even sunnier. We send him sledding down a more intense hill, and he loves it. Every time he reaches the bottom it becomes a harder slog back to the top, but he's handling it pretty well in spite of his cheap rain boots. My husband lugs the sled back uphill, and helps our son with the hike, while I stay with the dog and fumble with my snowshoes.

The sun intensifies and he starts to get hot in his gear.

Day 2 - Snowball fighting (mood: sour)

I offer for my son to take a break from sledding and try snowshoeing with me. He is patient while I struggle to attach the snowshoes to his boots, which are looser-fitting than I'd thought. The attachment doesn't last, and he can't figure out how to walk in them. He kicks the snowshoes off, calling them stupid or dumb or some other word we tell him not to use. I ask him if we can try again and he spits out "No!" I start snowshoeing away, trying to take a little walk in the woods like I'd planned. My son shrieks, "Where are you going?" Daddy explains that I need a break from his attitude, which is true, but I don't have enough stamina to go very far. I snap a photo of myself with a weak smile, pretending that I'm enjoying some backcountry snow adventure, then head back to the little family encampment. The kid's demeanor has not improved, so my husband suggests that we get ready to leave. Our son protests, so we send him down the slope a couple more times. He picks up speed and flips head over heels. He's not hurt, so we laugh. This is not acceptable; he explodes and accuses us of being meanies. We try to keep things lighthearted, but it's becoming difficult.

We gather our supplies and head downhill. He's still sore about leaving because he hasn't gotten a chance to make snowballs. At the bottom of the hill, I stay with him and try to make snowballs while Daddy takes the pup back to the car. This is our last full day in the snow, and I want my son to get the most out of it. I spend five minutes helping him put on his winter gloves, running out of ways to instruct him to spread his fingers and find the holes. Eventually they are snug enough. He gathers snow loosely with his hands and gets upset when it doesn't form a ball. I try to show him how to pack it, making a couple of snowballs and offering to let him throw one of them. He angrily refuses, protesting that he wants to make his own but doesn’t know how. I’m getting angry again, and I tell him that he’s not even trying. He takes off his gloves, throws them, and tries to stomp away through the snow. I yell at him to pick up his gloves. We leave full of tension.

Day 2 - Lunch, take 1 (mood: aggravated)

He doesn’t want to stop for lunch. Presumably, he just wants to get back to where his iPad is. But we’re all hungry and only have snacks at the hotel. We get to a cafe with beautiful mountain views. I take my son inside to look at the menu while Daddy walks the dog. I’m looking forward to putting down my bulky backpack and restoring the family to good spirits with some food. Then my son has to go to the bathroom, and reveals that he has also peed his pants. Reluctantly, I put down the menu and escort him to the restroom. We have no spare clothing with us, so I tell him to go commando, and I take his wet undies and thermal leggings back to the car.

Day 2 - Lunch, take 2 (mood: rejuvenated)

Everyone except the dog reunites in the cafe ordering line, and we find a good table to sit at. The adults have gourmet salads, and the kid has another pizza.

Day 2 - Recovery (mood: cozy)

It starts to rain. I drop off the boys, who want nothing more than to veg at the hotel. I want to go shopping in the little town, not because I need anything specific but because I do enough vegging at home. I pick up a few cutesy items and a bottle of locally distilled bourbon. I feel refreshed by having some alone time, but soon start missing my family and return to the hotel. Everyone happily does their own thing for a while. We get burgers and fries for dinner and watch a Harry Potter movie. Our son gets a bath in a tub that’s big enough to feel like a swimming pool. His dad and I enjoy some bourbon over ice from the vending machine next door. We still don’t hear a peep from neighboring rooms.

Day 3 - Homeward bound (mood: on tenterhooks)

It’s raining intensely. My hands are tight on the steering wheel as we drive over water-filled ruts on the mountain highway. I’m afraid that we will hydroplane just enough for me to drift into the path of a truck coming the opposite direction, or that a pothole will damage my car. My son is trying to watch his iPad, but it’s tethered to my cell phone again and the phone keeps dropping out of service. He repeatedly whines for help (specifically my help) and smacks the iPad screen when it stops working. We keep telling him that we can’t do anything about that in the mountains. I listen with relief each time his video starts playing again, but then I tense up, waiting for the next outburst when we hit another dead zone. He gradually calms down. We try to change the subject, but it’s hard to have any conversation while I focus on driving in these dangerous conditions.

The drive lasts two hours, and then we are home. The dog doesn’t vomit this time.

Day 3 - Unpacking

I’ve lost track of how many times my kid has called this either the worst vacation ever or best vacation ever. On the whole, I think we’ve managed the challenges okay and created some good memories. It’s hard to say how much a six-year-old will remember. The next day, on the way to school, I ask him if he will tell his classmates about the trip. He shrugs and says, “Nah”.