Remember when snowpants were an essential part of your winter wardrobe?

Sledding was terrifying–would you hit a ledge, land on your tailbone, knock the breath out of your lungs, miss the mattress and skid into the wire fence, or worse, the deleafed raspberry branches full of thorns–but in the moment of hesitation at the top, sled pointing straight ahead, debating your destiny, the slight push it took to begin hurtling down the hill was irresistible.

An injury-free finish at the bottom meant choosing to wipe out or an all-out-mayday-fling into the snow to avoid one of the menacing endings. Snow crept into every breach in your uniform–between your ear and your hat, the exposed sliver of wrist, melting its way down into your boots. You dusted off, grabbed your trusty plastic partner, only to begin the long hike back up. And somehow at the top, out of breath and sore, you couldn’t resist another go.

Looking back, I can’t think of many other times–aside from swinging as high as possible, flinging up and off flying toward the ground at the last minute–when you genuinely felt as if you chose your own adventure. The risks were yours to select and embrace, you decided how ambitious you would be this year–one year older, savvier, and seasoned–than that seemingly endless time ago last year.

Photos from our neighborhood today! We made it to Starbucks and were thoroughly soaked by the time we got back to the apartment.

 

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