"Mama, come out and play with me," my seven-year-old son said.
"Dude, it's freezing out there. I don't want to go out."
"Please, Mama. It'll be fun!"
Those are the famous last words. "All right," I said. But I hardly thought it would be fun.
We both bundled up and headed into the snowy outdoors where it was a balmy 17 degrees.
"Let's make a snowman," my son suggested.
I stooped down and rolled three little snowballs. Then I stacked them on top of each other. "There," I said. "That's it for the snowman." As I stood up, I got pelted with a couple of iceballs. "Hey!" I hollared. "No snowball fights!"
"Yes, snowballs fights!" my son said as he rolled a few more and hurled them at me.
"It's cold. I'm going inside," I announced. And that's what I did.
About five minutes later, the doorbell rang. It was my son, with a giant snowball in his arms. "I'm going to get you, Mama!"
"Oh no, you're not!"
He waited for me to come out. But I didn't. So now there's a giant snowball sitting on my front porch, just waiting to pelt somebody. I wonder who it'll be.