You wake up to the first snow of winter (looking like you've grown overnight again) and your first exclamation as you emerge from your bedroom and tear down the hall is, "Mom! Dad! I saw a salt spreader with a snowplow, just like Poppy's!!!" Nothing about the snow, its beauty or the fact that it's finally here, after waiting months for it and telling us we just need to be patient every time we wish out loud for it. When you rush into our bedroom where I am eagerly awaiting your first morning smile and dancy little eyes, I ask you if you saw the snow. Your standard answer is both gleeful and matter-of-fact at the same time: "Of course i did!"
You climb up next to me and we look out the window together. I glance at the beauty of the snow and then turn my gaze quickly to your face, consciously taking in your wonder and the moment. For watching you watch the world is the highlight of my life. You comment on how the snow has covered the cars, the wall, the swing... and you say, "Dad was right, part of the wall is covered and part of it isn't." Apparently he had predicted how much snow we'd get last night before bed. And of course you remember. Of course you do.
You request your highchair be turned to face the window so you can watch the snow while you eat your waffle with whipped cream and a fresh cherry face. You are serious about eating when it involves whipped cream. You munch in silence alongside your brother, observing the way the snow has blanketed the branches. You declare that we're going to build a "Snowbotasaurus", and we all laugh at the cleverness of you... and imagine how fun that will be.
There's a science to dressing for snowplay. And no matter how well I think i've perfected it, it always takes forever. But as you indulge me for a picture with your matching sweaters and snowpants, the excitement mounts, and we tromp down the stairs to put on the finishing touches-- boots and coats and hats. I open the door and wish I could be on the other side of it, like a movie, watching your first breath of cold air and the joy it brings to your face. But instead I watch the back of you, actually looking stout in your snow gear; bigger, wider and older than the skinny reality underneath.
It's a crunchy snow. only 2-3 inches deep with a little crust on top -- perfect for your short little stride. Any deeper and walking would be difficult... as it already proves to be for your brother. . . who is immediately frustrated. Oblivious, you set out across the yard calling for us to follow in your footprint path. "Come on, guys! Follow me!" My natural born leader.
As plans for the Snowbotosaurus unfold, I look to your artist father, hoping he has a clue as to how to sculpt in such detail as you are envisioning. Fortunately you are satisfied with simplicity, and are on to explore the yard within minutes. We try to appease your brother with a sled ride, but he is out of sorts, and won't even tolerate that. So after a few minutes of frustration, inside with Daddy he goes, and you and I are left to our own devices. We cross the slushy road to check the mailbox for Maddy's letter. You watch the cars spin slush into the air as if it were the most fascinating thing you've ever seen. People smile at us as they drive past slowly. I can only imagine they think you are as cute as I do. There is something about seeing a child out early in the morning, enjoying what we adults recall being once so magical. Your innocence brings joy even to passers-by.
We make it back to our driveway safely and as I open a piece of mail (no letter yet), I glance up and notice you a few feet away, lying motionless on your back in the snow. When I ask what you're doing you reply, "Just watchin the sky." Eagerly seizing another moment, I join you, and side by side we talk about the whiteness of the sky, like one biiiiiig cloud covering the earth. You decide that it's white because it's where the snow comes from. I must concur. I stare up at it for moment and then turn my eyes again to watch your wonder. It's been several minutes now and you haven't moved a muscle, or turned your gaze from the plain, white (kinda boring) sky. I marvel at who you are. How captivated you can be by sights and sounds and smells. All of which we talk about in hushed voices, instinctively respectful of the snowy silence around us. I wish I could freeze the moment and show it to you years from now. I wish I could fully take it in, myself, and remember it forever. I try really hard to gather it all up and ponder it in my heart. i trace your face with my eyes, attempting to memorize it for some future snowy day when you no longer look and sound the way you do. You tell me that when you put snow in your eye it turns into tears, and I watch you blink hard as a single droplet runs down your cheek into your hair. I ask you what you like best about snow and you say "building Snowbotasauruses", but I know the real answer is, "eating it." You can't stop scooping up mittenfuls and munching it as we sit there. I remember it appealing to me too many moons ago, and think to myself how now it isn't something I would ever do-- eat snow. And with that, you scoop up a chunk and hand it to me to take a bite. Thank you for rescuing me from being so grown-up.
You suggest we go in for hot chocolate, and I think selfishly how great it would be to get away with not have to trudge up and down the hill with a sled! What is wrong with me?! And while you never mention the sled, you do get distracted from the thought of hot chocolate about 10 more times... climbing the small Jap Maple tree and jumping into the snow-covered leaf pile leftover from Fall. Shaking the branches in hopes of making them 'snow'. Discussing why I can't throw you into a big snowdrift like we did the last 2 years (when there were 18-24 inches on the ground). Eating more snow. Towing your dumptruck out of the place where it was "stuck" in the snowy driveway. Shoveling all around the dump truck, pretending to be helping it get un-stuck. Shoveling the snow off the cars. Singing "What does it take? Team-work!" as we brush the snow from the windows and headlights. "You do this car, and I'll do this one, Mom." After several minutes of hard work, you mention hot chocolate again, for the 10th time, and this time we decide to call it a morning. It's probably not even 9:30am, but what a wonder-full morning it's been!
Thank you, my sweetness, for the memories.
I will keep them right here forever.
...Of course I will.
1 comment:
What a beautiful love letter!
Post a Comment