She dragged her right thumb through the snow as I pressed the shutter button “just one more time”. I felt her playful grin and heard the shuffle of her jacket as she put an exclamation mark at the end of her masterpiece - and then she laughed.

“MAD SKILLZ WERE HERE,” my twelve-year-old said, arms out, pointing me to the sparkling words.

“Ha, nice, yeah!” I responded.

Friday the moon shone full so no one needed Indiglo to see what time it was.

My son was the timekeeper. It was 11:00 pm.

The two big kids were in their snow pants and big ol’ Canadian winter boots and we were looking for Geminid Meteors. There was some stirring but mostly they were looking up to the sky in anticipation of another meteor.

I was set up with my tripod and camera on the frozen shore and the kids were behind me - Dad and one dog had already moved on and trudged back up to the house - but the big kids were caught by the bug - the one that keeps you for -

-One more minute.

Our feet were cold. Our cheeks were rosy. The click of my camera’s shutter went off every 10 seconds or so. I had my lens pointed up to the sky, tripod buried in the fairly-fresh-fallen-still-fluffy snow and most of the time it was completely quiet. That soulfully settled quiet that comes in the winter - peppered with “Oh, there’s one!”.

“Where? No!!!” I’d respond almost every time which led to repeated laughter.

The big kids had spotted five meteors for every one I saw. NONE of them were anywhere near my camera’s field of view - which is why they were laughing.

“Ok, well, I’m not going to move the camera - a good one’s coming - I can feel it!” I’d say.

They’d laugh and point up to the sky again having seen another one.

“One more minute, I’m gonna get lucky!” and I’d press the shutter one more time.

“They think photography is ‘Mad Skillz’ but it’s actually ‘Frozen Feet’,” I said.

“Mad Skillz? with a Zed?” asked my daughter.

“Well, yeah.”

She bent down toward the snow and I turned back to my camera. I looked up using Mars as my anchor to find the genesis of the meteors - and yet another one fell far over to my left.

“I saw one!” my son exclaimed (again), “It’s never where you have your camera pointed, Mom!”

“I’ve got this! It’s gonna happen!” I answered.

“It’ll be a miracle when you do, Mom.” He looked at his watch in the moonlight, “It’s 11:33.”

I know there’s more going on here than we can see (‘cause obviously, I wasn’t seeing the meteors!)

My kids are watching.

They see their frosty photographer-mom who takes 224 photos to capture one. They hear me open the sliding glass doors (and usually knock something with my tripod) as I go outside on countless nights to take photos of the party in the sky while they fall asleep. They watch me edit sometimes. They help me spot “the” photos - in this case the ones that had meteors in ‘em. (not many - it’s cool, we’re good).

Here are two:

Saturday we saw Miracle on 34th Street in Morrisburg

That night they watched my best friend - their god-mother - perform on stage (or was it on 34th street?). They laughed, They sang along. Our youngest burst into claps at one point when Rita nailed the part of the Radio Announcer - his feet didn’t even touch the floor. All three of them had light in their eyes (and my daughter had a little extra light reflected in her sequin cape).

I have watched Rita since we were four years old. Years of rehearsing lines, practicing all the instruments, managing the physical challenges that come with repetitive violin playing, joining her in the dance classes. Ushering at many of the community shows she was in. I visited her in New York, saw her on stages, listened outside of auditions…

Last night, my children were captivated by her. I teared up watching the whole scene. Our kids are watching - and I know they feel it - their souls do.

“Rita’s got Mad Skillz!” my daughter glimmered (I mean literally) as we left the theater.

Determination. Perseverance. Devotion.

“We said we were going upstairs at 11:35 pm, Mom.”

I pressed the shutter button one more time. My son laughed as a meteor fell to the far right out of my range again.

“Well, that was awesome, loves.” I folded up my camera and collapsed the tripod into my arms, “What an amazing night.”

We walked past my daughter’s message, “Mad Skillz were here.”

Miracles. Moonlight. Memories.

They may not be able to articulate it - but I’m pretty sure our kids are learning determination. They are witnessing perseverance. They see that dedication doesn’t always mean the results will be immediate.

I see it in them often. Picking up the dominos for the twentieth time and setting them out “one more time” to see if it works. Adding one more colour to the paint mix to see if it will be the blend he wants to match the leaf he saw this fall. Erasing and re-writing the math problem - sometimes to the point where the paper starts to thin. Restarting the music to get the Salsa dance routine down. Getting into the pool again because he wants the results of the swimming lessons even though the noise and all the kids are overwhelming.

I see it in my friends’ children too - I see them watching their parent(s)- and I see the impact of devotion.

I think I forget the big picture sometimes.

I felt it this weekend. This stuff matters. I remembered they see us.

They are watching - and they believe in miracles.