Saturday softens the blow of another February snowstorm. Nowhere in particular to be, nothing in particular needed by anyone.
Except the children who are playing in the backyard – they need advice. “Mom, we can’t get the carrot into the snowman’s head. The snow is too hard.”
Always the consultant, I am quick with a solution: “Have you tried a stick?”
And they are off on a stick search, which becomes the next round of sledding, which may eventually turn into a finishing off of the frozen creation (which just now appears to be a half-sized hunter with potatoes for hands, sans facial expression… but that’s all I can make out from my perch here at the kitchen table.)
Oh, and Beau the dog, he has needs. Eighty pounds of pure muscle, and he needs to pee. He needs to chase some squirrels, too… in three feet of snow that is packed on top, but soft underneath (which I didn’t realize until I got out there). One overly-confident step onto white surface, and boom. I’m stuck up to my knees with my torso being pulled by a Marmaduke-on-leash.
You see, the wee ones, they can walk, sled, play, slide, create on top of this snow without breaking the crusty surface. It all looked so easy from my kitchen table where I reflect now in relative warmth.
Live and learn (she writes with hard-earned wisdom, wet jeans, and a complaining back).
Then there is this: “Hey, we could read this book of classic poetry.” That was my second-grader to his younger cousin, suggesting an option for what to do next after they finish their après sled French fries. Does a poet-mother’s heart good.
Saturday, so it seems, crusts on the top, but stays soft underneath.