The Hills Are Alive

We are off to the mountains today, and to snow play. Lord Wife will be attending the baby shower of her cousin-in-law, which means Lord Baby will be in the company of his cousin and closest friend, "Pee-Dee," a jolly young bruiser a few weeks apart from him in age. They will be in their natural element, and Pee-Dee's father and I will watch our sons bounce off the trees which line trails like pinballs, throw rocks into streams, threaten to topple off of a low bridge, shoving each other into thickets of blackberry bush thorns, and sliding down snow chutes on slippery-thingies.

We've thought about leashes. We've thought about the strollers more and more people seem to be strapping their children into, wheeling them around until they're 8 or 9 years old, and god help us, but we've thought about cages, too. But the only leash I will bring is for the poor dog, a Jack Russell with missing teeth, whose dotage includes the travail of being yanked and bellowed at by insistent little doggie drill-masters who are still only two years old. The same forebearing animal who, on Christmas day, was gleefully chased by these same boys, reinforced by a four-year old, around the house with a rectal thermometer, and whose name will be withheld to protect her from further humiliation.

As for me? I'm taking my pain pill, and will bring along an extra.