Good at Falling

Good at Falling

Mexican Musings from Maine

We live on eight acres with a quarter mile long drive. And the mailbox is, of course and probably obviously, at the very end. Or the beginning, depending on which way you’re looking. We’re only renting and have no idea where we will end up in six months. So, while we have it, we’re taking advantage of our own personal winter playground and being as active as we can because it just feels good.

My daughter and I are severely allergic to mesquite, a fact we didn’t learn until after moving from Metro Detroit to Tucson four years ago, and as a result ended up with allergic asthma and a cocktail of medications (along with three daily nebulizer sessions for the girl child) just to function. There were no opportunities to go out and just play. She outgrew two bikes and one pink and purple power wheels jeep with0ut ever really having a chance to use them. And the dogs were lucky we had a backyard big enough for them to run because I didn’t get the leashes out unless we were driving to the vet for shots. It didn’t help that I am allergic to allergy medication and eggs and everything else, so no shots to make it all better.

We were confined to the house and our outdoor exposure was limited to car to store and store to car because anything over 30 minutes on the days with no wind and kiddo spiked a fever that kicked off about four days of allergic hell.

I told The Husband I suck at being Mexican, being allergic to the entire southern border and all. He agreed and quite nicely looked for a job transfer that would get us the hell out of Tucson. Naturally, we settled on the most northern point on the map we could find and then paid out of pocket for a 3,000 mile move put together in 3 weeks time. And we landed in Maine in  town north of Bangor on Thanksgiving day. Our celebration included roast turkey dinners at local truck stop.

We have a plow driver come and pave our way to civilization just ten minutes away at $50 per storm, so while the snow is pretty, its costing us. The Husband says he might look for a used truck with a plow and we take care of it ourselves. But that’s another day’s To Do. Maybe later, when we are more settled. Right now, we’re getting used to layers and boots and peeing before we put the snow pants on and making a game out of getting the mail. Sometimes we cheat and pick it up on the way out to town or on the way home, stopping the car on the side of the main road. But mostly, we try to forget on purpose so we can trek out into the cold and revel in the beauty of not being locked inside anymore.

Today, thanks to Santa and the in-laws (for Christmas and my birthday, thank you very much), we decided to snow show to the mailbox. Ski poles and all. We took the easy way there, through the path cleared away by the plow guy this afternoon. But she wanted to take the hard way home, through the deep, soft, unpacked snow, simply because we could.

So we did.

“Know what, mama? It’s a good thing I’m good at falling.”

I nodded and smiled, knee deep in the path we have just begun to carve out for ourselves.

“And you’re even better at picking yourself back up.”

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