Kate's Snowman

Kate looked out the window. “Snow, snow, snow,” she sang. “Today I will make a snowman,” said Kate.

When I was a kid my (great) Aunt Dorothy got me a collection of books by Kay Chorao. They were all about a little elephant named Kate. She had everyday adventures: once her mother made her a quilt when she really wanted a dolly, another time she dealt with her family’s aversion to her deep longing for “Car!”, and then there was the time that the only one who could calm her screaming baby cousin was Kate (with the help of her box).


Today, I could see the pages of Chorao’s book Kate’s Snowman in my mind’s eye as my brother waited patiently, holding my ten month old. My almost-three year old was chattering away as I armed her against the weather.


I helped her into her new snow pants, remembering Kate’s vows to build her snowman round, like her mother.


My daughter’s boots, coat, mittens, and hat went on next, and I recalled the scene with Kate’s brother, and her promise to build a snowman that was “mean, like you, George,” as he stuffed her hat on her head.


She tried to pull the face guard I was letting her borrow off of her nose after I velcroed it there, but in the book, Kate didn’t mind as her father tied a scarf around her neck, because she was bragging that her snowman was going to be big, just like him.

“Have fun,” said Mama and Papa. Kate stood in the snow. “Help,” she cried. “I can’t move.”

My daughter stood hesitantly on the porch, and my brother had to pick her up and carry her into the deep snow in the front yard. After he suggested they run through the snow, she slowly started moving, and he had to be content with walking instead.

Kate’s brother suggested that she sit, and then he rolled her in the snow. We don’t have a hill in our yard, so there was no way my daughter was accidentally going to set off an avalanche anywhere. Kate’s yard did, and she was covered in snow by the time she got to the bottom of it, where she made a happy discovery.


My daughter eventually started pushing snow around and giggling happily. When she came in, I asked her if she’d built a snowman. “No,” she responded. “Did you at least find any sticks?” I asked. “No,” she repeated, frowning.


That’s okay. There’s plenty of snow on the ground, and plenty of times this winter when my daughter can make a snowman. If she doesn’t, I’m sure at some point she’ll parade around with some sticks.

“Look, Mama! Look, Papa! I made a snowman!”