“Do you wanna build a snowman?”
It’s such a simple question. Innocent. Lighthearted. A child’s invitation to play, to dream, to create something magical out of a world turned white.
But for me, those six words carry so much more. They’re not just lyrics from a song or something you say when the snow begins to fall—they’re a whisper from the past, a gentle tug on the heartstrings of memory, and a reminder of a time when everything felt a little more magical, a little more possible.
When I was a kid, snow days were everything. They were freedom from alarm clocks and math worksheets, a break from routines and responsibilities. But most of all, snow days meant one thing: snowmen.
I remember waking up to the soft glow of white light outside, the kind that only comes when snow covers every inch of the world. I’d jump out of bed, press my nose against the window, and grin as fat flakes drifted from the sky like confetti. My little heart would pound with excitement, already planning out how big my snowman would be, what kind of face I’d give him, what accessories I could scavenge for him from around the house.
And then came the best part—yelling, “Do you wanna build a snowman?” to my sister as I ran past her room, not even waiting for a reply because I knew she’d be coming too.
We had our roles down to a science. I rolled the big snowballs. She sculpted and decorated. I’d dig through the kitchen for a carrot, while she’d sneak one of Dad’s scarves. We’d always argue over what to use for eyes—buttons or rocks—but eventually agree and laugh at how lopsided or goofy he looked. Sometimes he had sticks for arms, sometimes toy gloves. One time, we put Mom’s sunglasses on him and named him “Cool Stan.”
But it wasn’t just about the snowman. It was about us. The shared laughter, the teamwork, the way the cold didn’t bother us because we were too busy having fun. It was about being together—two kids in a snowy world that felt like it was ours alone.
As the years went by, the snowmen started to change. We grew taller. Busier. More concerned with texting friends than finding the perfect rock for a snowman’s smile. Snow days became study days. Then workdays. And eventually, the phrase “Do you wanna build a snowman?” wasn’t said anymore.
Life moved on. My sister and I moved away from home. We got older, found jobs, built lives. But every winter, when the first snow falls, I still think of her. I still think of Cool Stan, and the crooked-eyed snowman we accidentally decapitated with a sled, and the one time we tried to make a snowwoman with a tutu.
Last winter, after years apart, we both happened to be home for the holidays. It was one of those quiet, perfect days where the snow fell just right. We were sitting by the fireplace, sipping cocoa, scrolling our phones in silence.
Then she looked up at me with a little smile.
“Do you wanna build a snowman?” she asked, almost shyly, like she wasn’t sure if I’d say yes.
I laughed. Not a big laugh—more like a breath of joy I didn’t know I’d been holding. I nodded, set down my mug, and pulled on my old gloves. Out we went into the cold, giggling like we were eight years old again.
And for a while, everything was simple again. Just two siblings, rolling snowballs, arguing about button eyes and stick arms. We named him “Mr. Frostbite,” took about a hundred pictures with him, and even gave him a tiny top hat from an old toy set we found in the attic.
It wasn’t just about nostalgia. It was about rediscovery. About remembering that sometimes, joy is built out of the simplest things: snow, time, and the people who know your favorite snowman accessory.
Now, I realize that “Do you wanna build a snowman?” is more than a question. It’s an invitation to connect. To pause. To play. It’s a reminder that no matter how far we grow from childhood, there’s still magic waiting in the snow—if we’re willing to step outside and build something with it.
I may not always have time for snow angels or hot cocoa-fueled sled races anymore. But if someone were to ask me that question again—“Do you wanna build a snowman?”—I wouldn’t hesitate.
Yes. Always yes.
