Taking advantage of the wet powder sheeting the ground before it disappeared in the following day’s spring-like forecast, I promised my kids some time to play in the remaining snow. Within our advancing initial steps, we bent down to grab a handful and set our sights on any nearby target. The first shot in the friendly winter war.
I had only a single rule to follow: Don’t hit anyone in the face.
With each tag and a mark of evident precipitation left in its place, a telltale hit. Traipsing through the snow, a cast of footprints trailing behind. It was mayhem of flying snow and flinging laughter. It didn’t take long, however. As then, I breached my own command. Admittedly, a striking lucky shot.
Bam! Oops. A smashed snowball square at Jedi’s face.
His eyes froze shut for a brief moment before he turned to me, cold crystals clinging to his lashes. I was ready to apologize, concealing my amused surprised, instead prepared to deal with the ridiculous fallout. To wipe the snow away from his wet cheeks. But then he laughed, the greatest kind of laugh. Infectious as it was. And so did I.
“Revenge!”, Jedi declared as he rose, scooping more snow into a compact mound. Believe me, he got it.
Apologies were still said, though unnecessary. Because accidents happen. Even moreover, sometimes rules are supposed to be broken. Especially when they’re your own. It’s when an act of fun can reign profound. In that moment, it proved to be a very good kind of oops.