My youngest daughter, Eryn is 2-years-old. She has seen snow before.
But I realized last night as we all made our way from the SUV to the house that she doesn't remember it from last year.
My oldest daughter and I had scrambled up to the house, my hands full of plastic grocery bags so heavy, the weight of the food making it feel like the plastic was slicing through my hands. I had to hurry it up, just getting to the house seemed difficult.
I was starting to get crabby. So much to do, get supper going, do the dishes, check work emails, the list is always ongoing, putting me in overload. "Come on girls! Lets hurry this up."
Barely giving attention to the precious snowflakes floating all around us in a thick blanket, ignorant of the offering of a clean slate, I busted through the door leaving my baby behind, just so I could keep my fingers intact.
I got into the house, set the 2-tons of food on the table to be organized and put away; I realized the baby (she's not a baby at 2-1/2, really, but MY baby) wasn't in yet.
I hurry back to the door. What kind of mother dashes on ahead without her baby? I was relieved to see she didn't notice my dirty deed of dashing on without her.
She's staring down at the sparkling white patio, her little chubby hands pressed right into the snow, tolerating the cold from which I would pull away.
"She doesn't remember last year." I whispered to myself. Of course she wouldn't. She was only a mere tator-tot last year.
Realization comes in this moment.
I rush through life, rarely taking the time to look deeply into that which is beautiful, taking time to feel the divine magic and awe of life in its simplest form. Going through life with the attitude of "been there, done that."
She looks up at me, her eyes shining bright. I smile and squat down by her. I open my bare hand and lay it in the snow. We smile at each other.
Life is so rich sometimes.