With four saucer sleds in tow, I hustle my bunnies across narrow sidewalks en route to Central Park. I take in tree branches swathed in snow, which would have been entirely beautiful if not for one falling on a man two days ago-- killing him.
Pushing those images out of my overzealous, anxious, mind- we trek on.
For those of you who’ve never witnessed snowy Central Park on a Saturday, it is sight to behold. Hundreds of kids and their parka-clad parents make their way to the already speckled hills. The energy is electric. I swell with pride that I have gotten my posse to this particular space in time. Maybe I am one of those functioning mothers after all. Perhaps anything is possible. Crock pot meals. Bike trips down the coast. Knitting mittens for kids who won't lose them.
But truth be told though, the bustling urban landscape is a tad frenetic for my taste. Especially because of my ... issue. You see, in winter crowds, I tend to regress to my seven year old self, which by definition means all boys starting around age ten become terrifying little snow ball perpetrators to be avoided at all cost.
"Put the snowball down mother fucker. Put it down." I hear my voice
"Mom, calm yourself."
"Easy now. And no one has to get hurt."
"Mom, shhhh. You're embarrassing me."
"You think I won't ...?"
"What's with her?" asks the friend.
"Flashbacks," my first born answers, dropping the white weapon of mass destruction.
"Thought so," I say, walking away.
Across the vast plains, there is a collective sigh. Or maybe that's just me.
Regardless, I walk taller, taking pride in the fact that the park is a little safer, now.
We can all feel it.
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