Ice, Ice Baby

When did my point of view shift from 'childlike' to 'adultlike'? I've begun wondering that exact question over the last few days as I wait for the latest snowstorm to finish its work. When did snowdays become greeted with a big sigh of 'what are we gonna do all day' instead of a big 'woohoo - snowfort!'? How is it possible that 14 inches of fluffy white stuff brings groans at the thoughts of shovelling (which, let's face it, I let the more masculine part of the team handle), terrible road conditions and 'dammit, I left his snowboots at school again!'?

Even more mystifying is how I lost the magical importance of icicles. How could I have forgotten the amazing properties of those stalactites (stalagmites?) of the winter world? As kids, icicles were the whipped cream and cherry of a snow-filled sundae. The way they would hang from the gutters, so tantalizingly within reach to four or five problem solving kids (if you have a ranch house, that is). The way we looked for the biggest, the longest, the cleanest (extremely important)...comparing them to each other's icicles (men, at this point, are wondering if this is all just a metaphor - it's not), and the eating of the icicles as if the ice cream truck had delivered them with all pomp and circumstance.

Now back in the land of the ranch house and late snowstorms, I have begun to reacquire the appreciation of an icicle filled roof. I have tried to find the clean ones and share them with my son.

And I still let the more masculine of us shovel the sidewalks.