Last night at the girl’s swimming lesson, I tried to get creative with Chloe.

I have failed miserably at entertaining her for the many hours we are meant to sit in the stands and cheer on her sisters.

We’ve worked on puzzles, crafts, drawn countless numbers of colourful, crayon circles (the Chloe classic), made sticker albums, tried a Rapunzel Colour Wonder kit that ended up being tossed in twelve different directions when the ink didn’t magically appear instantly, read books, gone for long walks on the beach, played tag, hung from trees, done our taxes, decanted wine, it’s simply not enough to keep Chloe occupied because she knows she’s the tag-along for an event that has nothing to do with her.

But last night, I saw an opportunity to introduce some magic into our time together.

There was a rather sizeable snow heap outside the Rec Centre, presumably scrapings from the ice surface or a series of snow cone projects gone terribly awry. It didn’t matter where the snow came from, it was a warm fall evening and the first fun sign of winter was sitting, nay, calling us from just a few feet away from a public swimming pool.

I wasted no time forming a snow ball and whimsically tossing it in Chloe’s direction. She giggled excitedly and ran for the pile, pressing her chilled, wet fingers into it and mouthing the words, “You are the wind beneath my wings Mommy” as we laughed and frolicked and forgot about the rest of the world for a second in time I would always remember.

Then a guy walked towards us. My first instinct (obviously) was serial killer but when he opened his mouth, I could tell he came bearing gifts, in this case, the gift of knowledge.

He said, “I wanted to put up a sign that said ‘Bio-Hazard’ in front of this snow.”

Confused.

He went on to explain that the snow he scrapes from the ice (mental note, not all zambonie drivers are serial killers) is chalk full of hork (his word, but man did that ever leave a lasting visual) from hockey players, their sweat and blood from injuries and you’re jumping in it and touching it with your bare hands.

I nearly threw up.

I’d like to say we threw caution to the wind and carried on enjoying ourselves. Instead, I dragged Chloe kicking and screaming to the bathroom but not before diving what felt like the length of a football field to yank her hand full of snow away from her welcoming, two year old tongue.

A night to remember? You bet. It’s the night I encouraged my two year old to eat hork.