To stop and smell the roses in January in Montreal is to take a half-hour to walk the half-block from school to home.
For a 6-year-old, it is to mark every patch of virgin snow, to climb every snow-blown mountain at the end of every driveway and slide down it or, failing that, attempt to demolish it.
For the 6-year-old's mother, it is to lose patience at first, then watch and indulge, even help. What's the hurry? To get home, have supper, go to bed? It is to remember the magic of the snow of childhood.