My daughter's middle name is Picabo, as in Picabo Street; the well decorated Olympic downhill skier. Because I am a great lover of winter sports as viewed from my warm couch, I became enamored of Picabo during her final games. If she had won her last gold medal, Violet's first and middle names might have been reversed. I did some skiing of my own in high school, but with age I have gained not only wisdom, but a much lower tolerance for extreme temperatures. I could go all winter without so much as a passing urge to play in the snow, but I am not 4 years old and suffering from cabin fever. Yesterday, Aaron made a sledding play date for Violet with our neighborhood friends. This was fine despite Violet's lack of winter wear or a sled, because these friends were going to share their gear. Well, vomit happens and the play date got canceled.
I might have breathed a sigh of relief, but Daddy decided that we could go sledding by ourselves. We just needed to stop at Walmart and pick up a sled. I suspected that Walmart would fail us, as it always does, and gathered a few items to use as makeshift sleds (southern Ohio stores are notorious for not stocking sleds). Why not turn this into a homeschool lesson about what will hurl you down a hill and what will not?
Borrowed sleds actually work too well. The once fearless Violet began to rethink her whole daredevil lifestyle. Hurtling down a frozen hill at breakneck speed with a 200 pound man is apparently my daughter's threshold for terror.
Aaron ended up pulling Violet around in a laundry basket (I told you. Random household objects.) She was too traumatized to use the real sled again*.
*Furthermore, she was too cold. Her stylish faux suede coat and boots were no match for the wet snow, despite the grocery bag liners I expertly stuffed her feet into. We lasted 20 minutes on that hill.
