Blog Pause Day 11: My oldest daughter is hoping for snow on a daily basis. So far, she's been sorely disappointed. But after living in this town for fifteen years I'm aware that a long winter is ahead. January and February -- and sometimes even March -- are the months when the snow will come. Oh, it'll come.
With the occasional hefty snowfalls, we'll also have our fair share of bitter cold, negative degree wind-chill, non-snowy days that seem to serve no weather purpose other than making you truly grateful for spring. At that point we'll be clawing at the walls to get back outside.
Today's recycled post is one that harkens back to the end of a long winter on an unusually warm March day. I hope that you enjoy revisiting it as much as I did.
Originally posted March 18, 2011
Kerrington, today I took you outside and set you on the grass. You've been outside before, of course, but you've always been carried -- a bundled little entity, one swaddled or wrapped or hung in the crook of my elbow in your increasingly-weighty car seat carrier. Today, however, you were set directly on the grass that prickled your fingers in its still winter-rough, dormant state.
You immediately set off exploring. You wrapped your fingers around a fallen leaf and, as is your style, tried to eat it. Brooke yelled. I reached my fingers into your mouth, pulled out the soggy clump, and flicked it aside.
Undeterred, you crawled to the side yard directly for the rocks.
Grabbing one rock in each hand, you sat up and tapped them together. You concentrated intently for several moments, banging them against each other with greater force as if you were trying to start a fire by hammering flint.
No sparks appeared. You reverted to your old habits and drew the rock to your mouth.
I don't think you enjoyed it as much as the leaf.
My little one, you got your first grass stains on your knees today.
When you confidence increased and you ventured farther away, you reached a slight hill. Your hands slipped from underneath you and your head dipped into the grass face-first. You rolled and then regained your position, stretching your arms and legs out like a person seeking safety on thin ice.
You've never navigated uneven terrain before. It won't be the last time, and you handled yourself well today.
When we returned inside after playtime, I propped you on my hip and carried you upstairs for your nap. You smiled at me. I removed the wood chip that you had so cleverly hidden underneath your tongue, held you close, and then set you down, my little grass-stained baby.