I took the kids sledding this afternoon -- on probably one of the biggest hills we've ever been on. When I stood at the top and looked down, a small part of me suggested it might be dangerous. The other part of me put me on a sled and pushed me down the hill. It was a little outside my old body's comfort zone to be sure. And I flipped the sled and got a face full of snow. But I dusted myself off, climbed back to the top, and did it again.
So the kids take turns screaming down the hill, and on one run, Max, on a saucer, hits a little ridge, flies off the sled, and completes two somersaults in the air. I cringe and watch to see if he's still moving. The other kids (both nearly twice his age) are in awe. And from previous motherhood experiences, I expect Max to lie on the ground and start bawling. Instead, the little devil stands up, looks up the hill, and yells, "That was awesome! Mom, did you see me survive that?"
Survive" being the key word because it was the kind of crash that could have caused serious damage.
But I turn off my mom-o-meter, and we all cheer for him. Then Mia and Will take turns trying to steer themselves over that same jump. But nobody was able to finesse it like Max.
So while luck was on our side today, I think my little thrill seekers are going to wear helmets next time. And mouth guards...and neck braces...