No, I don’t want to build a bloody snowman!
So we’ve finally had some of the white stuff, and the little man is loving it! It’s only been a sprinkling overnight, so there was definitely not enough to build a snowman, and he hasn’t yet seen it actually snowing.
The last time we had snow, JB would have been four or five months old, and I remember carrying him in my arms, all wrapped up, showing him how beautiful the landscape was. A wonderful lost memory, that has only just bubbled to the surface, taking me completely by surprise.
There has however, been enough for snowballs. “Lots” of snowballs!
I’ve had a bazillion snowballs thrown at me, and I’ve sat and taken it. Not because I’m dad of the year, or because as a parent it’s what I’m supposed to do, but because I hit him with a snowball.
Now before you all start buying stones, and packets of gravel, to stone me just for saying Jehovah, in my defence, (yes I know how that sounds), I had already been pummelled by the kids, so a bit of friendly payback was in order. They had all received a gentle, underarm lob, that landed squarely on their tummies. Well, all but my charming little cherub.
I think excitement got the better of him, and he ran toward the missile I had already launched. Take into consideration this is a gentle, underarm lob, it’s not like I’m pitching for the Red Sox or anything!
As the offending missile reached the apex of its arc toward my son, time began to slow down, and I began to choke on that long, drawn out “NOOOOOOO!!!” as I saw my little angel take another slow motion step forward into a face full of cold, compacted, ice and snow.
Cue Batman onomatopoeia…
I say a face full, and I know you’re thinking how big a snowball did you throw at him? The truth of the matter is, my projectile was no bigger than a ping pong ball, or more realistically a ‘mouthful’, as this is EXACTLY where it landed. In his mouth!
Cue Super Mum, to scoop the slush puppy from his kisser, and then cue the cries, as mummy wipes the blood from a cut lip, and the tears from his eyes, before they rolled down to freeze into an icicle on the end of his chin.
At that moment, I’m sure you can imagine me feeling like I’d found a small glass vial with a label marked “Drink Me”, and had done as instructed. Combine that with the fact that reality hadn’t yet resumed its regular speed, it took what seemed like an hour to reach my wailing whippersnapper, to whisk him from his feet and warm him in my wings.
Some five minutes later, the tears were forgotten, by my son at least, and I had become the target for a barrage that almost turned me into a snowman. My little monster was all smiles and laughter again, and my nomination for father of the year, was, like myself, buried in the snow, hopefully to reappear after the thaw, and bloom in the spring. 😉