Were our children more discriminitive in their snow eating, I’d not hesitate to open the back door and watch as they tromp past me snow-panted and gloved.
“Have at it,” I’d say.
Only they would. Because I’ve seen it.
In winters past, before I could utter, “let’s-not-eat-every-piece-of-snow-we-see,” they’ve dashed by me, eyes aglaze at the four flakes in our back yard.
Only today we’ve actually got snow. Snow that’s still there when we grab the camera and walk back to the window. Snow that threatens to bring with it more snow. Snow in gusts; snow going sideways; snow as confused as we are.
And whether the stuff is still on the ground tomorrow isn’t the point. It’s that my kids want to re-glove and re-boot, and skid outside for a big wad of snow to put their smackers on. Which is fine…if we forget entirely that we have a dog the size of a medium motorcycle who has to change legs six or seven times as he pees and walks, pees and walks…
And pees and walks.
Now I’m not here to argue the taste quality of shallow snow licked from the picnic table where the dog lays on non-snowy days, or raise a beef about eating snow from the garden weeds, or the tire swing or the cover of the grill…
But the snow in the grass, heh…the easily accesible snow in the grass, the snow my son likes to pack in a cup and eat with a spoon…
Seems we’ll watch for a pucker…*ahem*…and advise accordingly.