The Firstborn loves the snow. He loves to dig in it; loves to scrape it and sweep it off cars, ledges, steps; loves to shovel it; loves to run and stomp and kick it up. He is the first to suggest going out, the first at the door all ready to go, and the last to come in (I generally have to bribe him with hot chocolate to get him back inside).
Princess, on the other hand, while insisting she wants to go out too, lasts barely fifteen minutes. Part of it is that she is so bundled up into a roly-poly hatted, booted, mittened, snow-panted thing that she can’t do much. Can’t grasp the shovel. Can’t pick up the snow. Sinks knee deep and needs rescuing. It’s fun for a while, but can we go inside and get hot chocolate now, please?
Baby Boy doesn’t even make it out of the house. Stuff a baby in a snowsuit, take him outside, and all you get is that look of stunned resignation. The look that says, yeah, I’m a baby and therefore subject to your whims. I can’t walk, I can’t run, I can’t squirm (much), but really, what the heck is this?? Snow is no fun for him, so he stays where it’s warm, right inside the door, in swing, car seat or bouncy chair.
I was going to relate this to writing somehow. Perhaps this is analogous to people’s reactions to writing–there are non-writers who never even make it out the door, the dabblers who only like it for a bit and the hard-core ones who don’t ever want to come inside.
But really, the true point of this post is a) Look I took a picture of an icy branch! and b) My kids amuse me.