I’m pretty sure that as a kid I must have liked the snow. I’m old enough to remember digging tunnels after the blizzard of ’78, enjoyed jetting around the yard on the back of my father’s snowmobile, and surely must have built at least a few snowmans that have since melted from memory. We had some good times with a tube, a tractor and a cornfield as teenagers, but I also fell off a ski lift and still have scars on my face from a horrific sledding disaster. Myself and Southern Comfort are more to blame for this disfigurement than the snow, but it’s not completely without blame.
As an adult I have no use for it whatsoever. It’s cold, wet, and hurts my back to shovel. It interrupts my satellite television, causes power outages, and sucks to drive in. Ten years ago my wife-to-be and I joined some co-workers on a snowmobiling weekend and came home both physically and emotionally battered. Every vacation since has been to a southern destination.
My five year old and the puppy are too young to know better. They both love this late season storm that has once again turned my yard into a frozen playground for them to frolic in, oblivious to the wind, the sub arctic temperatures and the White Walkers that lurk beyond the treeline.
They also don’t listen very well. Like all kids, within the first fifteen minutes of being outside Alaina will have:
1. Made a snow angel, causing snow to somehow get between her skin and the multiple layers of clothing she has on.
2. Eaten snow, hopefully from nowhere near the dog’s preferred bathroom area.
3. Tried to throw a snowball at me, usually from a distance of less than two feet and missing by three.
4. Either taken her hat off and thrown snow into the air directly above her head or removed her gloves and placed her hands directly into the nearest snowbank.
5. Had to pee.
I just stand here and smile through chattering teeth. I applaud every “cool trick” that I’m told to watch, dodge the occasional ice ball that actually has a chance of connecting with my face and daydream about the spring that I know will eventually arrive. I yell at her to put her hat back on, yell at him to stop eating deer poop and yell at some stupid groundhog in Pennsylvania that predicted this mess.
I think about how much more fun life is at five years old and I wonder if it’s actually possible for someone to freeze their stones off. I fear that I may find out because neither one seems ready to go back inside anytime soon.