Fighting with Snow

Immune to the arctic conditions -in that inexplicable way that children are- all fluffy and flamboyant in their insular seasonal suits, Eowyn was without inhibition and -refreshingly- complaint. Her only request was for the retrieval of her beach chair for some drift-side snow-bathing. This petition I bemusedly indulged, until we resumed our “sandball” fight, a term coined by my beguiling beach enthusiast. Eowyn was hysterical with laughter. Handicapped by the toddler-height icy dunes and already a novice at the ancient art of snow-ball battles, she was invariably bested by her mom with (shocking) sportsmanship.

The singular, seminal rule was to avoid throwing snow in the other’s face. That was it.

It was all very Rockwellian, there amid the wintery landscape (absent the staged sewer pipes in the abandoned lot next door), that is, until I violated my own snowball fight statute. Unwittingly, my pitch erred and smashed directly between Eowyn’s enormous (disbelieving) eyes. In that “A Christmas Story” moment, I could do nothing but, well, laugh. Somehow, my parental guilt was eclipsed by the irony that I had nailed by toddler in the face with an icy clump. Fortunately, after a few requisite tears, Eowyn was laughing as well.

It was one of our best fights ever.