Not too many things in nature are as beautiful as the falling of the first snow of the year. Then, reality sets in. But before you have time to complain, to dread the shoveling and the slush, you see the world inside of a snow globe. It is quite, magical, serene.

Growing up in Green Bay, WI, I experienced a lot of snowfalls. For those who know me now, it’s almost hard for you to fathom that I loved the snow and the cold. Today, I am a woman who hates the cold, who dreads the snow (or any precipitation for that matter), who is seeking any possible escape from weather. Then the unthinkable happened. I moved to Boston.

I remember when I first applied for the job in Boston, I had a gut feeling that I’d be a finalist. There are certain jobs that just speak to your experience so perfectly, and this was one. I remember talking to my family about it – could we actually live in Boston? At the time, I remember thinking, no, I don’t want to live there, but for this opportunity, maybe.

Fast forward 5 months and here we are. To be honest, the transition has been tough for me. I forgot just how much I hate all things weather – the snow, the rain, the sleet, the cold, the wind, the humidity. I miss Arizona. I miss California.

Behind all of these things I dislike, I have found a few reminders of the winters I used to love as a child. When the first snowfall was set to arrive in December, my children were utterly excited. The night before the first storm, they shrieked with excitement. They couldn’t wait to finally wear their brand new snow pants and boots. They envisioned the forts and snow men and snow angels they would build.

The next morning, the snow hadn’t arrived yet and they were disheartened. I told them it would arrive that afternoon, and it did. By the following morning, it was an absolute winter wonderland (cue Instagram pic).

That morning, I could hardly talk my kids into eating breakfast, they were shaking with anticipation. After a forced breakfast, I bundled them up and getting myself prepared for the cold. Luckily, it was one of those perfect winter days. Fresh snow, just below freezing, with no wind and bright sunshine.  Thankfully, I kept a pair of snow pants from a sky trip many years earlier. So, I was all set for the cold.

I wish I could accurately describe the level of joy my children experienced. When they ran and jumped and fell into the snow, I wish I could capture that childhood wonder. They were so blissful. Watching them make their first snow angel, attempting a snowman (the snow wasn’t sticky enough), seeing them sled down the driveway, was everything. It was one of the most special moments I’ve witnessed with them in a long time, maybe ever.

Although I know my words don’t accurately reflect the level of elation they felt, I am going to try to keep that in my memory and in my heart. I think the photos we snapped capture some of the joy and I want to remember that moment forever.

There are times when I know I take my kids and my life for granted. I often get wrapped up in the day to day. I often miss out on the now, on these little happy moments. I’m working on it. I’m going to try to capture them in words and photographs. Hopefully, I can use these to remind myself of these happy moments in their childhood that are fleeting.

In the end, the kids only lasted about an hour in the snow, maybe even less. They absolutely loved playing in the snow, but cold hands and snow sneaking into the boots did them in. Afterward, we snuggled on the couch and talked about their first time in the snow. They already shared fond memories of the experience and how they hoped they’d get to play again the next day. That night, we read several books about winter and snow and they seemed content.

Now that it’s been about a month since the first snow fall, the joy may have faded, but the memories are here. For that, I am grateful.