A few weeks ago, the kids made a snowman.
Ham and Nica were very proud and fond of him. Nica named him—wait for it—Frosty. Archie and I warned the kids that the days were getting warmer and that Frosty would soon start to melt. (Nica, being a big girl of 5, gave us a “No duh!” kind of response.) The kids looked out the window every morning to check on Frosty, who was indeed beginning to deteriorate. At first Nica was dismayed at Frosty’s decline, but after a few days, she developed an almost sadistic-slash-scientific attitude about it.
But 23-month-old Ham understood neither our warning nor the natural forces that were causing Frosty’s erosion. Every morning, Ham reacted as though Frosty were suffering from some type of snowperson’s degenerative disease.
Every day, Frosty’s condition worsened.
I gotta hand it to that snowman, though, because he outlasted all the other snow.
When Frosty was nothing but a couple of snow bits, Nica wrote him off. But Ham still held on.
The next day, Frosty was completely gone. For a while afterward, Ham still asked about the snowman, and he had mini tantrums when I couldn’t make him appear. But he, too, finally forgot about Frosty and moved on with his life.
Then, a couple of nights ago, it snowed again. When I told the kids in the morning that it had snowed, Ham ran to the window, shouting “No-mah! No-mah!” I thought at first that he wanted to build a snowman. But when I saw the confusion and disappointment in his face, I realized that he had expected Frosty to be there, in his old spot. Apparently, Ham believed that snowmen are resurrected every time it snows. I said, “Don’t worry, we can make a new snowman soon.” But he didn’t want a new one.