Zak and Wyn engaged me in an epic snowball fight on the walk to preschool this morning. At some point they acquired a healthy measure of good sportsmanship. Each throw is preceded by the shout “Daddy, look out!”, followed by a delay until I make eye contact with a little knuckleballer frozen in full windup. Only then does he unleash the projectile, always displaying those wide eyes and giant, unguarded grin little boys adopt while having a great time and living in the moment. It’s a gift they’re never aware of giving.
I’m not encumbered by their sense of fair play, though, and will happily pelt the back of any tyke bending over to scoop up his next snow grenade. Even after twenty times or so, the tactic still surprises them.
Mittened little hands aren’t yet up to packing or gripping a decent snowball, so most of the missiles either disintegrate in midair or fly off in a random direction. The safest place to be is an area two feet directly in front of the guy making an attack. None of this dissuades them, however. At one point Wynston uses both hands to heft a huge chunk of snow formed by a snowplow and proceeds to pound it against my thigh until it disintegrates. The object is to impact Dad with snow and if throwing snowballs isn’t working, then it’s time for Plan B. The little punk is quite determined.
Eventually I deliver two snow-caked, tardy kids to preschool and try to evade their teacher while getting them cleaned up. She’s terrific, but I avoid having to explain things to grownups whenever possible.