My three grandsons looked out the window at the falling snow. It had been snowing all day. The boys were driving us crazy. “GinGin! GinGin! Can we go outside?” five-year-old Seth asked my wife.
“When the snow stops.” Ginny replied.
“Poppa-Mike, can we go outside?” four-year-old Josh asked me.
“When the snow stops, Josh.”
When they couldn’t convince us, they turned to their mom. “Mom, can we go outside?” They asked Heather in unison.
“Josh! Seth!” Heather scolded them. “Only when Poppa-Mike and GinGin say you can. Go play in your room until then. You’re not going to make it happen any faster by pestering everyone.”
Two-year-old Benny was oblivious to it all. Blues Clues played on the television. He was content to watch Dora and her friends yell at Swiper, the evil fiend of the show. “Swiper! Swiper! No swiping!”
We expected company that day. Ginny and I were owners of an online support group for widows and widowers. Every year we hosted a Christmas party for the local members of our group. We did it for the children who lost a mother or father.
Ginny was adamant, the party could wait. She wasn’t going to miss her grand-children’s first experience playing in the snow. If things weren’t ready when our guests arrived, they could wait. The boys were more important.
The snow stopped. It was time. “Come on, boys. Get dressed! Let’s go out and play.” Ginny clapped her hands. “Let’s go!”
It took thirty minutes, three adults, and lots of patience to stuff three moving targets into their bulky snow suits. Seth and Josh had the strength to move their arms and legs. Benny? He was another matter. His arms, encased in synthetic restraints, stuck out from his sides, unable to move. The same restraints held his legs stiff. He walked with the gait of a young Frankenstein character.
“Is Poppa-Mike coming?” Josh asked.
“He’s going to get dressed and join us in a minute.” Ginny told him. “Let’s go!”
“What are we going to do, Poppa Mike?” Seth asked me.
