One of my most favorite things is throwing snowballs at my children. And FINALLY, the Terror is old enough. Jeez. That took long enough. He’s been with us now for almost three seasons of the stuff, counting his first spring and winter and spring and now this winter.
Er. Four seasons.
I’m hoping that some good-minded retailer out there would sell some gloves with a built-in duct tape dispenser. Toddlers can shake ’em off faster than a… a… a…
I got nothing. Except proof.
We had been outside for about two minutes and Daddy had put those back on the boy about 92 times. Roughly.
But my love bug of a Goldfish? He can keep them on. And they hold snow. Lots of snow.
Cold, cold snow that you can blow out of your hands, but it comes back on the breeze to get you.
Didn’t slow him down much. He reloaded and designated himself on Daddy’s team.
The Terror knew that something was up. He knows us too well. Except he hasn’t been around long enough to know what it was.
He hid on the porch.
I tried to coax him out into the open.
I slowly gained his trust.
And then, I told him I wasn’t really his wingman and I bolted.
Look at him. He still doesn’t know.
But then he got nailed! POW! Right in the head. Look at that remnant of a snowball. Perfect shot.
Yeah baby! Game ON!
It was like that scene from Elf. And he was diggin’ it.
But he was quick to wise up. He dusted off his boots and repositioned.
But you are still no match, grasshoppa.
What a good little sport. He wasn’t really getting nailed. Well, except for that first one that got him in the head. Mostly they just whizzed right by and hit the door or his boots.
But oh.my.gaw. it was hilarious.
A very good day, indeed.
The G’Fish got properly pummeled a couple times.
He was not too quick with the snowball-maker-thing. He’s gonna need to bring his A game next go-round.
Not too long after we saved ourselves from the wind that kicked up to make the chill nip at our cheeks (not the naughty ones), we decided to sit by the fireplace DVD and listen to Daddy kick around a bit on the guitar.
But the Terror started piping up about needing apple juice.
Hank just kept playing. A little louder.
He got all grunge on us, trying to drown out the cries for thirst.
But then we all cracked up, because that little guy was not kidding he was thirsty right now and would not wait one minute more.
(And btw, yes I told him that I would get the apple juice for him, but he insisted, “NO. DADDY.” One does not mess with Toddler Logic.)
So I gave the Goldfish permission to something very, very naughty. Something that is not allowed. Ever.
Except today because we were full of joy and orneriness from playing outside.
There was some jumping on the couch.
But just a little bit.
Because you’re not supposed to.
Without exception. Except today.