We did it! We went sledding. Well…ok…not sledding, but my boy got to move in a sled. I would say it is the same thing, but I lived in New England long enough to know the difference. Picture this: less than 1/4 inch of snow on the ground, barely enough to cover the grass and me and my boy, with shitty dog in tow, trying to make something out of nothing. At first, I thought there would be enough to make at least a little jaunt possible. So I sat down in the sled, all excited. Got M to sit in front of me. He was almost giddy.
“One! Two! Three!”
And…nothing. The weight of me was too much and we just sort of sank into the mud. Plan B: Just M.
“One! Two! Three!” He got about a foot and a half before running into a tuft of grass that was enough to bring him to a complete halt (this was in opposition to moving slower than molasses). Plan C: I would pull him down the hill, trying not to fall because I wore my boots with no tread. I was determined to give my boy the sledding experience he has been craving since he was conscious of snowflakes.
So I did it. I pulled my boy, all bundled up in his snow pants, scarf, gloves and hat, down the tiniest of hills and then back up. Over and over again. You know what? He had a blast! He has no idea what real sledding is. I am pretty sure he thinks that sledding is code for giving Mama a workout. And really? It doesn’t matter. One day he will know what real snow looks like and what it feels like to sit on the edge of a real hill, looking down with butterflies in his stomach. One day, he will know enough to be disappointed in imitations. But today, he doesn’t. Today was just fun.