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Truly, Christmas out at my parents acreage differs so vastly from the ones we have at our house in the city that it’s a completely different set of “traditions” we have going on.
Firstly, Papa (my dad) tinkers around for a few weeks fixing various everythings for the kids.
Then almost as soon as we are out Christmas Eve, he and my son hop on the quad to make a path.
My daughter delights in chasing the countless barn cats around.
Then the real fun begins.
” YES! I completely remember how to drive this! Careen wildly around the yard on the paths we made, make my mothers heart stop a few times and make her pray the helmet does it’s job.”
“See ya, City Slicker Mom!”
It’s true. This former country living mama forgets the crazy hijinx she used to get up to, riding these without a helmet and let’s make that adult sized skiddoos by the age of 12, still sans helmet, not to mention the quad riding, playing by creeks half a kilometer from home without adult supervision-in bear country, no less– and generally what now seems to me complete parenting folly on my parents behalf.
I am a 34 year old sissified, citified softie.
I was a lot tougher when I was 12 and my parents let me roam free. There’s something important to be found in that thought that I should heed.
I’ll just fret about how fast the skidoo goes instead.
Time to gas up at Papa’s corner barn store.
Speaking of the barn, there’s the girlie looking for more cats.
Then when she’s bored because all the cats are hiding, it’s time for big brother to take her for a ride.
And here’s one of those barn cats out of hiding.
After a day of playing hardcore outside, chasing animals, feeding the horse, chasing mini skidoos (me when my daughter was learning, holy, those little suckers can go fast when you have to run beside them!) a huge ham dinner, it was time to leave the goods out for Santa.
Santa was very, very grateful.
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