Even though I’ve survived 50 Canadian winters, the first snow of the season always catches me off guard. This winter was no exception.

We woke to find our world wrapped in a heavy white blanket. My two-year-old son Lucas is mesmerized and wants to make a snowman. But it’s a workday and we’re already running late.

Wrestling a squirmy toddler into a snowsuit is like trying to put pajamas on a harp seal. I pull on his snow pants, coat, mittens, hat and boots while he shifts his toy Thomas the tank engine from hand to hand. When he’s finally dressed I go in search of winter gear for myself. I can’t find two gloves that match but decide to forsake fashion for frostbite.

We’re inches from the front door when Lucas looks up at me and says, “Money, I have a pooty in my bun.”

I grapple with a moral dilemma. Do I drop him at daycare pretending to be unaware of the situation, or change him now and be late for work? The former could knock me out of the running for Windy Woods Daycare Mother of the year. I strip him down and start over from scratch.

Once I’ve fastened Lucas in his car seat I need to deal with the 10 inches of snow covering the car.   When I open the driver’s side door an avalanche of the white stuff drops from the car’s roof onto the front seat. I try to brush it all off but inevitably miss some and end up sitting in it. It feels cold against my skin and makes me look like I’ve peed my pants.

A quick scan of the trunk reveals that all snow brushes have been replaced with lawn chairs and beach blankets. I shut off the engine and search the garage to find absolutely everything but the aforementioned instruments. It occurs to me that some people can actually store entire vehicles in their garage, thereby reducing the need to reclaim them from the elements on mornings such as this. In desperation I grab the giant spatula that hangs on the wall with the barbeque utensils.

I start scooping the snow off my Toyota like I’m flinging stacks of fluffy white pancakes from a super sized frying pan. The sound of metal on metal hurts my ears and I wonder if I’m also removing a layer or two of paint.

A neighbour walking his golden retriever down the street takes in the scene and says, “That’s not really a snow brush you know.”

I give him my best “And I’m not really a moron” look but now he’s on a roll.

“Hey, I’d like mine well done,” he says and “Could I get one with extra barbeque sauce.”

I finally finish and we’re ready to go. A snowplough has deposited a ridge of snow rubble across the end of our driveway during the night. There isn’t time to shovel so I just take a run at it.

“Hang on Luke,” I say, and step on the gas like Beau Duke about to jump the General Lee over the biggest ditch in Hazard County. There’s a thump as we hit the drift followed by scraping as the car’s underbelly rubs over the frozen ice chunks. I’m relieved when I check the rear-view mirror and don’t see automotive entrails scattered across the snow.

I finally deliver Lucas safely to his daycare, where I give him a wistful hug and we go our separate ways. It’s only then that I realize my purse, that vital organ women wear on the outside of their bodies, is nowhere to be found. I turn the car around and head back home.