He came running in the back door, wet track marks and globs of snow all over the hardwood floors I’d just mopped clean.
“Joey, for chrissakes,” I whined. “Take your boots off at the door.”
He was oblivious. “Mom, you gotta come. Mom, get dressed.”
I was still in my bathrobe watching old Abbott and Costello re-runs. I was cozy, wrapped up in grandma’s pashmina, a family heirloom that Mom gave me after gram’s recent passing.
“What is it honey?” I hadn’t moved. Not one iota. I paused the DVR.
“There are these tracks, Mom. We were sledding out back on Rebel Hill, and Tina saw them. Tracks this big!” He held his hands out and indicated about two feet of space between them.
I smiled. He is adorable, of course. He’s my baby, my pride and joy. Such a good boy, and his entire face lit up with possibilities, with that magic of the unknown.
But, not on a Sunday morning. I wasn’t about to freeze my ass off, sauntering across the Artic northern regions to investigate what animal might eat me for breakfast.