As we were leaving the school where C’s sensory gym is, he spied two cardboard Frosty the Snowman standees, each over six feet in height. He made an immediate hard left turn, cutting me off, and marched directly toward them.
He pointed at one and said, “This one is Frosty.” He pointed at the other: “This one is Snowman.”
This seemed to please him greatly, so he continued: “Frosty!” Turns: “Snowman!” Turns: “Frosty!” Turns: “Snowman!”
With each turn he became more animated, until finally his pointy little finger pushed “Snowman” so hard it began to fall over. I lunged to grab the standee. As I did so, C spun and pointed his finger directly at the chest of Frosty, pushed hard, and yelped, “FROSTY!!!”
As Frosty started his own descent toward the ground, I let go of Snowman and lunged toward Frosty and, in doing so, managed to cross one leg in front of the other. At this point, my legs were completely intertwined.
And so, as Frosty hit the ground, I hit the ground, too…hard as a sack of potatoes. I didn’t even have time to get my hands in front of me. WHAP! Right onto the unforgiving elementary school linoleum.
A moment passed, and then came Snowman. Apparently I’d not stabilized him sufficiently before letting go. There I was, lying on the ground, two large cardboard snowmen on top of me.
A security guy and a custodian who saw the incident ran over to see if I was okay. I leapt up, embarrassed, and blurted something about being totally sober, which probably had the opposite effect. They chuckled and walked away.
In their wake stood C, regarding me with what can only be described as a slightly quizzical yet mostly disinterested gaze. He leaned over, pointed, and said one last time: “Frosty. Snowman. And Daddy.”