Tuesday, January 25, 2011

We found a hill in Kansas!

We took the Cowgirl and the Dancer sledding this weekend.
I could feel that little spot in my brain where expectation crushes up against reality quivering in anticipation. It was the Dancer's first time on a sled. Ever. So many images flooded my brain of what a magical afternoon sledding should look like. So many more images flooded my brain of what it very well might look like. Especially when mom is overtired and a tad irritable.
The Artist and I were exhausted from a busy weekend schedule but it was now or never. The sun comes out. The snow melts. So we did it. We bundled them each in three layers, including waterproof snow pants (thanks to my sister in law, the Crafter), loaded the car with borrowed sleds (yes, I am that mother; the one who just can't bring herself to put down the money for her own sled) and headed for the hills. Literally. They can be hard to find in Kansas.
And I waited. I waited for that crust of painful snow that always seems to find it's way inside the wrist of a child's glove. I waited for the faceplant that would leave a red cheek chafing under streaming tears. I waited for the whines when they found out how much harder it is to go up than down. I waited for my temper that makes a special appearance on the most over-scheduled, exhausting occasions.
And it never came.
All that came was that fresh, crisp feeling of crunching through the snow and hearing how thin and clear squeals sound in the cold air. The Dancer went down one time with me and then insisted that I send her alone. My tiny three year old. Poised at the top of an icy, 30 foot incline.
She sailed. She toppled. She faceplanted. She laughed. She pulled her own sled back up. She slipped. She got snow in her hair. All the things that I was dreading happened. And none of them were dreadful. They were hilarious and wonderful.
When we were too tired to trudge back up the hills we made a snowman taller than me. The Cowgirl rolled such a huge snowball for the middle section that the Artist and I couldn't lift it and had to karate chop it in half and reconstruct it after placement. We gave it hair from feathery weeds that stuck up from the white forest floor and all sat back, a little impressed with ourselves.
The only whines that came were the ones that followed our announcement that it was time to go home. (Oh, and the whines the Dancer gave me when I told her to stop eating the snow. She went for it doggy style- Open mouth, insert face into cold white stuff and swallow)

But I found those easy to ignore because the Artist was looking like a sexy ski instructor and we had a babysitter coming in two hours.
The sun comes out. The snow melts. We lose our chances. Except for when we don't.

1 comment:

  1. Glad the snowsuits fit and worked! Hooray for the Park Hill clothing house!

    luvs, aby