The Big Snowball

"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.