When we got here there was a foot and a half of brand new, fluffy snow. Silas, of course, was dying to sled, have a "snow fight," and build his first snowman. But each of those involved pulling on boots, hats, and snow pants, tucking pants into socks, zipping up coats, feeding thumbs into mittens and sleeves into mitten cuffs, pulling hats over ears etc. AND taking all of that -- wet, snow-caked, and soggy -- off each time we got home. (It turns out I love putting on my Toms and walking out the door).
Each time Silas asked to go out, I felt myself dragging my feet and starting to make excuses about why later would be better. Since really later would be exactly the same, I pushed myself to bundle us both up to the chins and step out into the sunny snow.
We trudged up the little hills, loaded into the almost-slipping sled, and flew down, screaming as we inevitably crashed into a snow bank, house, or just each other. And each time, I loved it as much as he did.
It seems I'm constantly trying to decide how much is too much for Silas, Eden and me: too much hassle (getting ready to sled), too much travel (a frequent question), too much packed into one day, too many visits with people, too many activities. It's often hard to know when the work of moving us from one place to another is worth it, and when it's overload. Since I've been in Washington, I've been using "the sledding test" to decide whether or not to do something (for example: to drive 8 hours to NC and back for a 2 day visit right before we fly home to CA). I ask myself if this IS, indeed, too much or whether, at the end of it, taking 15 minutes to layer clothes on a whining over-hot child could result in Silas sprawled on the snow giggling and both of us breathless from the feeling of flying?
It's a good question.
(we didn't go to North Carolina).