When you tell a six- and an eight-year-old boy that they can go play in the snow with just sweatshirts and hats — no snow pants and boots and gloves and giant coats — you will then witness pure joy.
The snow began to melt this week after weeks on end of snow, snow, and more snow. While the two of these brothers played and rode sleds and built snowmen and threw snowballs and otherwise did everything you’re supposed to do in the snow, they seemed equally excited at the prospect of warmer air. Of riding bikes in the driveway and down the road. Of getting out the Nerf axe and sword and attacking the forts made in part by the neighbor’s snow plow, their hands forming the rest. Of, ohmygoodness, being outside without the air burning their lungs, stinging their cheeks.
We spent over an hour watching them play, throwing snowballs with bare hands, and generally breathing fresh air.
Two days later, a wicked stomach virus started to make its way through our family. I’ll focus on this memory instead.