I was walking through Harlem last month and passed by a father and his child. The father was unloading some things from his vehicle, and his adorable offspring was attempting to scale the small, snowy mountain that had accumulated behind the car.
The child (who couldn’t be older than…however old children are when they climb snow mountains) was sharply scolded by his father and admonished against future, unsanctioned mountaineering expeditions.
I’m not a father and have very few ideas to offer about good parenting. As well, it’s entirely possible that that there were very good reasons for this child being instructed not to play in 36 inches of pristine powder.
But I can’t help but feel like the father could have used a therapeutic snow day. Maybe I’m judging. Maybe I’m a big kid. Maybe.
***[This post if dedicated to my parents who let me play in the snow. Actually I’m from Florida, and we didn’t grow up with snow. But my parents did let me play in—and alarmingly, eat, according to photographic evidence—the dirt.]