Oh right. Life is supposed to be fun.

I've been a little melodramatic and self-pitying lately. I don't know if it's the winter or hormones or exhaustion or too many snow days or a virus or any combination of those thing, but I just cannot stand to be around myself. Then, of course, I start berating myself for being such a miserable mess. If there is any worse company than a miserable mess, it's a nagging miserable mess. Last week was The Worst Week of My Life, except that it shoudn't have been because it really wasn't all that bad. Just virus and snow days and hormones and exhaustion which really, in the scope of the whole world and the entirety of history is but a bump in the road. I just managed to hit the bump head on, somersault a bit, and plant myself head first in the muddy ditch.

Friday afternoon, I forcibly plucked myself from the ditch and sent myself to Jake's school for cocoa and books. I read three books to the class and made punny jokes. Then on the way home, Jacob pelted me with snow balls. Since I had forgotten my gloves, I responded the only way possible. I threw the child into a snowbank, bottom first. It was the most fun I'd had in days. It was so much fun that Jacob continued to egg me on so that I'd do it again. By Saturday at noon, he'd convinced me. We were walking to the gym for a basketball game. After the tenth snow ball, I pushed him into the snow. I stood over him crowing while he laughed. Then I realized that another parent/child pair was standing on the sidewalk next to us, watching in amazement. I sheepishly lowered my head then I heard the boy say in a sad little voice, "Dad, why don't you ever do that to me?"