We awoke this morning to a little March surprise from Mother Nature:

He is more excited than he looks.  Really, he is.

The first thing he wanted to do was to “Build a Frosty!”  So in March, in a state where it almost never snows, my son and I stood on the deck, with wet and cold-reddened hands, and built Frosty.  Or a reasonable facsimile thereof.  We didn’t have an old-silk hat, so a Mr. PotatoHead cap had to substitute:

Okay, so we didn’t have coal either.  His eyes and nose are cinnamon dots.  Hey, if they were good enough for the Gingerbread Man, they were good enough for Frosty.  Except cinnamon “heat” is more than metaphorical, because within minutes, Frosty had red, sunken eyes.

Apparently a Mr. PotatoHead cap does not have the same magical cachet as an old silk hat, because he didn’t exactly get up and dance around either.  But, then again, a Dancing Frosty with hungover red eyes and a dripping red mouth cavorting in our backyard was more likely to bring nightmares than joy, so I expect it’s all for the best.

And it was The Best.  It was a welcome break from three weeks of bonebreaking work and parental neglect to spend a few stolen moments making memories, and one very scary snowman, with my son.

Priceless.