It was 4:34 am when I rolled out of bed, bleary-eyed with a head full of tangles. I stepped into my slippers and shuffled first to the bathroom, where I took care of business, and then to the kitchen. I flipped the light switch up and winced as my eyes adjusted to the brightness. I yawned, stretched, let out a big sigh, and began to fill our backpacks. I stuffed every available pocket with sandwiches, snacks, extra mittens, socks hand warmers, and anything else I thought we might need to successfully spend 14 hours outside in December. I piled our packs and gear next to the front door, then shuffled back to my bedroom. I pulled on warm wool layers and thick wool socks, and then I tiptoed into my 6-year-old son, Calvin’s room.

“Hi, Mom!” he chirped.

I was surprised to see him sitting up on his bed, already dressed in warm layers.

“Hey, buddy. I guess you’re ready to go. You sure you still want to do this?” I asked.

“Yep!” he said, before sliding off the bed and running into the kitchen.

We both put on our snow pants and boots, then carried our supplies out to the van. In addition to our backpacks, I threw a sled and a couple of hammocks into the trunk. Cal climbed into his booster seat, while I ran back inside to grab our jackets. I tossed a couple of bananas and granola bars into my purse, for our breakfast on the go.

“Do you think we’re really going to make it, Mama?” Cal asked, as I sat in the driver's seat and buckled my belt.

“Well, it’s now or never, my boy. Today is the last day of the year,” I said.

“We’re so close, Mama. Just 14 hours to go,” Cal reminded me. 

I started the engine and put the van in reverse. I wouldn’t normally choose to spend my new year’s eve attempting to complete the last 14 hours of the 1200 Hours Outdoors Challenge, but I needed to do this for my son. We made just one New Year’s resolution last year: Spend 1200 hours outdoors. I couldn’t let him down when we were this close.

The 1200 Hours Outdoors Challenge- Beat Screen Time with Green Time! was all the rage on the mom blogs back then. I thought Calvin and I needed something to focus on other than his dad walking out on us 3 days before Christmas. We needed extra motivation to help us put one foot in front of the other. My boy has always been a nature lover, and he’s never been one to turn down a challenge. He was all in.

My enthusiasm for this endeavor waxed and waned over the course of the year, while Cal’s remained constant. I would have considered 1,186 hours to be close enough, but he wouldn’t hear of it.

“You promised, Mama! You promised that we would do this. We can’t stop now, when we’re this close,” he cried, when I told him we hadn’t quite hit our goal.

I thought back to all the times he’d asked me to take him camping, and I never did. Camping was something that brought back too many memories of his father, and what our family used to be. I remembered all the times he’d asked me to take him to the playground, but I convinced him to watch a movie instead, so I could hide under the covers in my dark room. My mind replayed each moment that I couldn’t set aside my own heartache to be the mother that he needed and deserved. 

“Alright, buddy. I can tell that this is really important to you. We can try to hit 1200 hours before midnight tomorrow. We’re going to have to be outside before the sun rises, and stay out until after it sets, but if you’re up for it, then so am I,” I told him.

Cal had jumped up and hugged me upon hearing that news.

“You’re the best mom ever!” he declared.

“That’s only because I have the best kid ever,” I told him.

I squeezed him tight and snuck a glance at the weather app on my phone. I was relieved to see that the temperature was supposed to be in the 30s, with light snow. A mild day for us seasoned Minnesotans. 

Calvin had been eager to plan our event. He knew right away that he wanted to spend his 14 hours at a local nature center where there was a sledding hill, nature playground, and miles of trails. I supported his choice of location, because there were indoor bathrooms, which gave us indoor access to warm our fingers and toes, if need be, and they sold snacks. 

I pulled into the empty parking lot and drove to a spot at the back. Calvin had his seat unbuckled before the van was in park.

“Can I play on that snow mountain? I want to play on the snow mountain, can we start there, please? Please, Mama?” he begged.

He was referring to the huge pile at the side of the lot that is created when the plows clear all the snow and push it together.

“Of course. This is your day, we’ll do what you choose,” I told him.

It would be nice to stay close to the lighted lot since it was still dark. The van’s clock told me it was 5:02, and the sun wouldn’t rise for nearly 3 hours.

Cal bounded out the door, threw on his jacket and mittens, and ran to the snow pile. He’d managed to climb to the top and slide down on his bottom several times before I even opened my door. The pull of the heated van was strong, and as I looked out at the dark and frozen

parking lot, I longed for my cozy bed. I pushed the thoughts of my soft blankets out of my head, put my coat, hat, and mittens on, and stepped out of the van.

“Come on, Mom! Watch this!” Cal shouted.

He slid down the pile on his belly, head first, with arms outstretched in front of him.

“I’m just like a penguin,” he laughed.

The moment he touched the bottom of the snow pile, he turned around and climbed back up. Calvin was constant motion and movement. He was always testing out new ideas. 

“Mama! Watch this!” he called to me from the top of the pile.

“I’m watching!” I assured him.

He sent a big snow chunk, one that he had just expertly excavated from the pile, rolling down. It splattered when it hit the pavement.

“The big ones break at the bottom. But the little ones don’t, I’ll show you,” he shouted.

He then excavated a smaller snow chunk, and sent it rolling down. It landed softly, still fully intact. 

“See?” Cal exclaimed.

He slid down behind the smaller chunk and promptly stomped it with his boot.

My son played on the snow pile for 2 full hours. He carved out different openings and created shelters and hideouts. He stockpiled snowballs, and invented various games to play with them. He never once complained of being bored, and he never needed me to give him direction on what to do. He has been like that since he was a tiny baby.

Calvin isn’t the strongest reader in his kindergarten class, and he has an intense dislike of the math and letter tracing worksheets he’s forced to do there, but he is brilliant in other ways. Cal is endlessly curious, and he can make something out of virtually nothing. His resilient spirit is unrivaled, and he will persevere through almost anything.

I never understood the parents of Calvin’s peers who pushed academic learning in the early years. These parents would get so excited over a toddler’s ability to recite the ABC’s, or a 3 year old who could regurgitate the sound that a letter B made, but they didn’t seem to notice that their children lacked the ability to rebound after failure, or come up with a plan by themselves. They failed to recognize how problematic it was that their children didn’t want to try something new if they felt there was a chance they might not be good at it. I didn’t want that for Cal. I didn’t want his inquisitive spirit and his ability to see many possibilities in every problem to be squashed by a traditional preschool setting, so I’d never sent him. Instead, we spent his first 5 years exploring our local playgrounds and green spaces, daily. 

I was fortunate to be in a position where I was able to make that choice, when Calvin’s father was still around. Now that he’s gone, I have to spend most of my days working outside of the home, and Cal has to

spend most of his days in a kindergarten classroom. It’s not what either of us want. It makes days like this one, where we can explore in the fresh air as much as we want, so important for both of us.

“Can we go sledding now?” Cal asked.

“Sure. It’s your day, buddy. You get to choose,” I reminded him.

“Can we eat first? I’m kind of hungry,” he said.

I pulled out the bananas and granola bars. Cal ate his portion in 2 bites. Then he washed it down with a few slurps of hot chocolate.

“I’ll get the sled!” Cal called, as he unlatched the trunk of the van.

He pulled out the sled and then our packs and the hammocks.

“Actually, let’s come back for these, later,” he decided.

He put the backpacks and the hammocks back in the trunk. I shut the door, and Cal began to pull the sled toward the hill. He stopped suddenly. 

“Mama, I have to pee!” he informed me.

I glanced around at the lot. The sky was lighter now, but ours was still the only vehicle there.

“Run behind that tree and go,” I told him.

I pointed to a large oak up ahead. Cal ran and did what he needed to do. Then he ran back and resumed pulling his sled. All of a sudden, a silent explosion of snowflakes filled the sky. Cal paused and stuck his tongue out, trying to catch one.

“We have the whole hill to ourself. This is SO cool!” Cal cheered.

He ran up the hill, dragging his sled behind him. He was up, then down, and up again before I even made it to the top one time. My son played on the hill for another 2 hours. When he got tired of using the sled, he slid down on his bottom. Then he rolled down the hill over and over again. He made snow angels all the way up along both sides of the hill. He stomped through deep snow, and threw snowballs at the lone tree at the top. He never seemed to run out of things to do.