“Daddy? It’s snowing!”
“It is? Cool!”
Is the subtle lilt in my voice too subtle–or have I fooled her? I’m sick of this winter. Enough already.
“And we can go play in it!”
This isn’t really a statement. It’s a question, a test of my true commitment to the coolness happening outside.
“Maybe later. Right now we need to clean up.”
“Yeah. And then we can go outside and play in it!”
I didn’t always hate snow. Before, when there was time. There was a time when I felt just as excited as she does at 4, waiting to jump and dive and slide in the fresh, soft, clean powder.
But I turned a corner somewhere back there, and I can’t find my way back. Maybe you can go back. I’d like to try.
I don’t know the moment when play stopped being my work, but it wasn’t so long ago. I may notice more now–others, the world, myself. But what else do I miss?
It’s been a long winter. A little warmth and sun would be so nice. But if I could just remember how I used to see, through her eyes, that would be enough for now.
Look outside with a different set of eyes today. Things are rarely what they seem.