Page 83 of One Big Little Secret

I can handle a little cold and a couple achy feet tonight for his sake. There’s no denying it’s beautiful, too, even if it makes the roads dicey.

By the time his class finishes and we’re walking across the parking lot, into the chaotic winter night, everything glitters with white fluff.

“Mommy!” He sprints across the slick parking lot ahead of me, his face still flushed from the junior karate moves. “Look, it’s snowing.”

He tries to catch a few puffy flakes on his tongue.

“And you need to tuck both arms back in your coat,” I say with an affectionate sigh. “Come here, let me help you.” I twist him around and push his arms back through the arm holes. “Now let’s get you in the car before you catch a cold.”

“Wait, wait! Mommy, you’ve gotta see this.” He strikes a combat pose, holding one little fist up parallel with his shoulder and the other by his waist.

He looks so fierce I almost laugh.

“I saw it. I watched your whole class, sweetie, but very cool. Keep practicing. Your teacher will like that. Now, Mommy’s getting cold, so can we practice more at home?”

“It’s snowing!” he yells excitedly.

“And my fingers are falling off. I need new gloves.” All of me is frozen, really. I’ve barely been outside for a minute and I can feel the wind snaking under my coat. “You can practice all you want once we get home, okay?”

“Promise you’ll watch me?”

“Do pinkies ever lie?”

I bend down, hooking my cold little finger into his.

He laughs, shaking his head.

Then I herd him into the car without protest.

The thick snow feels like it’s already an inch deep on the sidewalk, and the melting slush under my shoes makes my feet number.

My fingers are a little clumsy as I strap Arlo into his kiddie seat.

“Can we go sledding again?” he asks.

“Maybe this weekend if it lasts. But don’t count on it; we’re getting to the point where this stuff turns to slush overnight.”

“I wanna go now.”

“Now? Oh, no. It’s dark and I need to get you fed.”

“That makes it more fun!”

More terrifying, he means.

“Arlo, no. We aren’t going sledding at night in this mess. The roads could turn into solid ice if it drops a few more degrees,” I say, voicing my biggest fear out loud.

“We can sled home on ice.”

His innocence makes me smile.

“Maybe you can. I can’t, big guy.” I give a strap going over his shoulder one more tug. He folds his arms, but I just shut the door, ignoring his puppy dog eyes.

My breath smokes as I walk awkwardly to the driver’s door.

Sure enough, there’s a growing layer of snow on the car like icing, half melting as it lands on the warmer metal and trying to refreeze. I stop and scratch the ice off my side mirrors.

It’s nights like this that make every Midwesterner wonder why they don’t live in Florida.

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