I like these cold winter days. Days like these let you savor a bad mood.
– Bill Watterson, author of Calvin & Hobbes
As winter grows long in the North, good moods go South. The warm fuzzies are frozen and replaced with looks like FringeKid’s – The Hairy Eyeball. That’s a term, learned in Maine, to describe FringeKid’s raised eyebrow. She inherited this look from her grandma.
I shivered in my shoes, quaked in my boots, and shook in my slippers whenever my mother’s brow started to rise. It essentially meant, “Prepare For DEATH!”
Before the hairy-eyeball infiltrated each of our faces, the FringeFamily decided it was time to hit the slopes. Not the skiing kind of slopes. No, we don’t have those in Long Island.
We, instead, hit the mole hill in the park. Notice I’m dressed much warmer than my children. I’m just a bad mother that way. I hog all the warm clothing for myself. I’m wearing two pairs of gloves, two full layers under my pants and two shirts under the sweater under the coat.
I get cold easily.
My kids named this move where FringeMan appears to tearing off their limbs, the helicopter. They spin to the bottom taking out every other sledder in their path.
A woman and her little boy approached, seeking to gleam parental advice from the FringeFamily.
She picked the wrong family.
Momma and junior looked as if they’d been ripped from the cover of Urban Baby, the most fashionable parenting magazine to hit the NY markets.
Ok, I made up the Urban Baby magazine. Doesn’t it sound like a good idea though?
“Do you think my baby is too young to go down the hill?” she nervously inquired.
Looking from the mother wearing leather, healed dress boots and designer jeans, I glanced down at her little boy. He walks, he’s taller than my knees, and looks like he could scream if something breaks…
“Oh, sure!” I reassured her. “He’s plenty old enough. How old is he anyway?”
“Three.” she revealed as she looked again at my kids spinning helicopter style.
This mother and son were a sight. That’s all I’ll say.
She may have been mildly alarmed if she had known that when FringeBoy was one, I tied a sled to my dog, stuck FringeBoy in the sled, and sent the dog running. Even I panicked when the dog crossed over several acres of field and headed for the pond. Don’t worry, this was in Maine and people drive their trucks on the ponds. No thin ice in Maine.
Imagine me running wildly behind.
Eventually the dog tired and stopped short. She wasn’t the brightest bread. The sled and baby crashed into her a milli-second later.
What a ride. It began FringeBoy’s love for amusement parks.
You may want to think twice before you ask me for parenting advice.