So, this big storm settles in last week, dumps a ton of snow and then clears out, making room for the next storm, which added to the drifts at our place until some of them were waist-high. In between those storms, on Saturday, we grabbed the opportunity to go sledding as a family out in the woods behind our house. The snow was really nice for sledding, skiing, snowboarding, etc., the only problem being that it was almost too fluffy, which meant that a good sledding chute needed to be created.
We found a good spot on the riverbank- steep but not too steep and with minimal rocks and other obstacles. First order of business was to figure out who had the best stats for tamping the area down with the metal disc sled. Turned out son was too light and daughter too reticent, which left Mom and Dad. I went ahead and gave it a try: Oomph! Urgh! And down the hill she goes in lurches and scoots. The next trip down went a bit more smoothly but not, apparently, smoothly enough for the husband, who was getting visibly impatient, old sledding pro that he is.
"Here, let me try that thing," he said, reaching for the disc. Clearly, he had an idea - nay, a strategy for knocking out a sledding chute worthy of the Jamaican bobsled team. I stepped out of his way, and the three of us watched as our fearless leader set the disc on the ground and then lay across it on his belly, so he'd go down the chute head-first. Oomph! Uuurgghhh! And down the hill he goes, like a flounder just awakened from a long winter's nap. Like a flounder wearing Wranglers, which are roomy enough at the waist to allow several generous scoops of snow to pack firmly down into the front of his britches.
Of course, if you want something done right you have to do it yourself, so "Here, let me have another go at it," I said, hitching up my own favorite pair of lady Wranglers and laying belly-down on the disc. Predictably, halfway down the hill I felt the unmistakable bite of my ovaries being flash frozen like Han Solo in The Empire Strikes Back.
Sure, we could have headed home at that point, but the chute was finally starting to take shape. So the old man and I ended up jumping around a bit instead, clutching wincingly at our reproductive bits now and then while cheering on the kids as they whooshed effortlessly down the hard-earned chute. Hey, the prairie ain't no place for wussies.
Plus, it's kind of cool to know that between the two of us we've probably got enough biological material preserved to start a family centuries after we're gone.
