Our family plans to get out tobogganing at least once every weekend in the winter. That is always the plan. The reality is we make it out tobogganing once every third winter.

 
We’re not skiers, skaters, snow-shoers or Wickans. Just a family seeking an afternoon of outdoor fun three times a decade.

 
The hill we use is next to a religious, family retreat of some sort so we trick the kids into thinking they’re also going to Church and doing what God wanted them to do—skid down a hill into some trees towards a road and see if you can cheat death. Once again I’m proud to announce successful, snowy baptisms.

 
Greg wore his usual tobogganing attire; dress shoes, leather gloves and jeans.

 
Ellie said she was dehydrated after the first run and without water, wouldn’t be able to continue. In a reverse snow angel, face first in the ground, she spent the next ten minutes debating whether it would be worth it to lick the snow or walk back to the van.

 
Chloe was the most fun of all. At six, she is as determined as ever to race down the hill but equally as determined to not walk back up and never, ever carry her own sled.

 
Enter Hanna, the babysitter who would only ride down the hill in a rescue-effort scenario.

 
Greg and I stood at the top of the hill looking down at our three kids; one licking snow, one grumbling about wanting a piggy-back, one riding off to save the day.

 
We reminded ourselves how lucky we were to have had kids. It forces us to be present, to stay active and to get outside on a cold day and enjoy nature.

 
We also reminded ourselves, if we hadn’t kids, we could be sitting in front of a fire, reading a book and not wondering if frozen jeans could fuse to skin.

 
And then the dreaded moment where someone had to announce we were wrapping things up and sneaking back through the various cross symbols to find our vehicle.

 
It’s this moment every parent dreads. One kid is already half way to the car, one is the furthest point at the bottom of the hill from the vehicle and one is wedged in between two trees at the half way point.

 
By the time the kid at the bottom makes it back to the top, seventy-five minutes have passed and everyone is grumpy.

 
The kid in the bushes springs alive at the promise of hot chocolate.

 
And finally when everyone is where they should be, the key has turned in the van and the Lord (our compass) is going to guide us home, it happens.

 
Someone kicks the Elmo slide an inch. Just an inch but that’s all it takes for the slide to first shuffle to the left, slip over a smooth icy surface and fly down the hill like a garbage can lid oiled up Griswold-style.

 
Who is going to get the last sled?

 
Greg is dressed for a wedding, Hanna only goes down the hill to save people—not things, Chloe is six, she could run down the hill but doesn’t have a reverse switch. Ellie is looking for the mirage of a lake in the middle of the desert so this leaves, you guessed it, NOT ME!

 
So we wait.

 
Nobody kicked the Elmo slide down the hill.

 
Nobody is going to get the sled.

 
We wait until the promise of sunrise.

 
We wait until the wolf packs surround us.

 
Another meeting of the “I didn’t do it” club.

 
I’m sorry we only get together every three years.