Saturday afternoon, with all three Crisler men down for their naps, I suggested to Adelaide we go play in the backyard. She agreed after securing a promise from me to pull her around the yard on the sled. This plan was hampered by the fact that we apparently have no rope anywhere, nor do we have anything that could reasonably imitate a rope.
So I used my maternity jeans. They worked surprisingly well- just knot one pant leg around the front handles, and use the other leg to pull.
Adelaide loved being pulled around, and I got some excellent exercise- at it's most shallow points, the snow in our backyard measures about six inches deep, and the deepest are five-feet drifts. This resulted in my having to lift my knees up to waist-height for every step, giving me what felt like a workout on a StairMaster. For some reason she found it hilarious to watch me stop every so often, panting, to rest.
When I finally collapsed from exhaustion, Adelaide clambered out of the sled and declared it was time to build a snowman. Please note that I grew up in a place that has about ten inches of average snowfall. Huxley, Iowa receives about 32. I vaguely remember begging my Dad (one of the few times we had enough of the right kind of snow) to come outside and build a snowman. I think I spent about ten minutes helping before whining that it was cold and going back inside for my hot chocolate. I am no expert on winter-snow-fun. And now my darling daughter wanted me to build a snowman.
Maybe three minutes into this venture, I realized a snowman just wasn't happening. I tried explaining much of the previous paragraph to her.
Guess how much she cared?
So we proceeded in our attempt to build a creature made of snow. Eventually we ended up not so much with a snowman as a snowlump. But we were pretty pleased.
|Adelaide with SnowLump. And those things under the smile are supposed to be buttons, not snowman acne.|
Sitting about four feet apart from eachother, I began tossing handfuls of loose snow at her. Rather than retaliating, she was slowly and methodically making perfect little snowballs, piling them in front of her. "Typical," I thought. "She's more interested in making things look a certain way than in actually playing." While I taunted her with comments like "I'm going to bury you!" she just smiled and continued to build her pile. After a few minutes of this, she finally hurled a snowball at me. And I discovered her little snowballs were not just pretty little spheres, but hard-packed ice bullets. And her aim was better than mine. And she had built herself an impressive cache of ammunition.
When that first ball hit me, I said "Ouch!" under my breath. Adelaide heard me and cackled madly. I'm not sure if it was on purpose, but she seemed to be aiming for my arms and legs, where I had less padding than on the torso, where I had been hitting her. After she had hit me enough to raise what I was sure were several bruises, I began to complain aloud. Rather than ceasing in the beating of her mother, she said, "Man up, Mommy. That's how snowball fights are supposed to go."
Man up? Oh, I would be talking to Derek about that one.
I continued on in the battle for a few minutes for form's sake, then finally cried, "Mercy!" (In an affected jovial tone, trying to keep the petulant note from my voice.) I had to remind myself that I am the adult to keep from pelting enough snow at my four-year-old's face to erase her satsified smirk. She was the clear winner.
It's probably a good thing that it will be too cold to go outside tomorrow.
|Unbeknownst to me, Derek took a picture of our snow war. It really was more fierce than this photo would have you believe.|