I was worried. The kids were worried. This guy needed direction. Pride. A job.

"One thing I know for sure," I told him one particularly depressed morning, "you're an excellent father."

Those words had some magic in them, it turns out.

It wasn't that there was a lot of snow that year. It was how the snow fell and how it stayed: Nothing. Then buckets-full. A thaw. And then arctic temperatures and freak ice storms that encased us in our houses like tongues on metal. Stuck. We couldn't even wander in the wilderness, which is what we do in Montana all winter to keep ourselves from going loony. This winter flash-froze us in our tracks--tracks that were already losing their way thanks to a crippled economy, and in my case, an emotionally crippled husband who was judging his entire self-worth on his income. Until I made The Father Comment.

So when he came to me with an offer, I took it and ran.

"Listen, nothing's happening at work," he said. "There's no reason for me to go to the office at the crack of dawn. You've got more irons in the fire. Why don't you stay here and write. I'll do the kids. Besides, the roads are treacherous. No reason for both of us to go into town. I'll drive the kids in, I'll pick them up, I'll do the after-school routine. You work. You deserve it."

I couldn't believe my frost-bitten ears. "Okay," I said. "Thank you."

And suddenly, overnight, the role of mother as I knew it was gone.

Suddenly, they were all up early--six-thirty! Taking showers. Brushing their hair and teeth. No arguments. Sunny, even. Chatting about the upcoming baseball season and the return of soccer--guy stuff! And I saw it: My husband had springtime in his eyes.

Still, I'd throw on my bathrobe and rush downstairs to greet my family with a hot breakfast like always, but my husband already had it covered. Things like Cheerios and Raisin Bran appeared on the kitchen table. Permission slips were signed and folded into backpacks. Lunches were made and stowed. Yellow post-its to teachers were written in a man's script. I didn't know he could do any of these things! What's the opposite of emasculated?

Before I could offer one pearl of wisdom to my children, they'd slurped down their breakfasts, brought up their plates un-prompted, donned their winter garb and were out the door.

I had to race them just for a hug. Our usual meaningful good-byes were now shouted into the dark over the truck's groaning engine.

"Have a nice day!"

"You too," they hollered, disingenuously scant silhouettes in the headlights. So hungry for father.

And I was alone. In the wilderness of myself. Writing. But losing my motherhood to "the economy."

In our family, however, what the economy yielded was: A father.

In the wilderness of his self. Not as business man or breadwinner. But instead, dwelling in the raw and healing forces of Fatherhood.

Who knows if the economy will recover. I just know that he did. And with spring's thaw--the forest floor bejeweled with magenta fairy slippers, the yellow flashes of arnica--the faithful return of robins and bluebirds and brave hummingbirds-- we knew to leave the detritus of winter behind us. And join spring.

--Laura Munson