We've had a lot of snow lately. I've enjoyed every minute of getting outside to do the hard work of shoveling. Straining my muscles feels good. Sweating feels good.

Most days we go outside, at least once. Today twice. There's a thin veil between waking and napping for my son. He needs help lifting the veil. His eyelids droop and close, but he cries fitfully. So, we pace, we bounce, pat, shush, we suit up and go outside. We need a new view. Big flakes are falling and they look like stars - snowflakes.

Today his cries echo through the setting sun, blue on the snow already fallen. His cries echo off the pond and the slope with the cohosh. We walk awhile, longer than usual, still he cries. I slide on the lane, a drunken gait, my feet seek the places where the plow revealed the gravel. Still he cries, face red, eyes closed. I'm getting tired. I skip. He quiets a bit. We walk. A bit quieter. We walk. Quiet. I check him. Our neighbor drives by. We talk. My son stirs. "Have to walk." We walk. Quiet.

Snowflakes on my sleeve.