Saturday morning found me in a rare mood: wistful, wishing for something.
Or rather, someone.
Someone small. Someone hearty.
Someone just as thrilled as my girl with the layer of white on the ground.
Someone that would be happily pulling her boots on over her pajamas, not caring that the clock read way-before-breakfast AM.
Someone that would enthusiastically agree to a snowball fight, no matter how cold it was outside. Someone for Newt to play with…
…other than me.
These are the times when being the mother of an only child is harder than it looks.
By noon, this first batch of snow was gone and with it my melancholy. So I don’t get to sit at the table with a cup of herbal tea, listening to the sound of my children’s laughter (which probably would never happen anyway).
Instead I get to be out there, laughing with her.
Which is a pretty great place to be, after all.
