It didn’t make sense.
I have mostly myself to blame for being stubborn. We had packed up the car, excited to go for a walk on the first truly nice day of the year. The sun was out, the air was crisp, and we were eager to stretch our legs after what felt like an eternity of winter. We chose a nature trail we’d never been to before—an adventure waiting to happen.
But when we arrived, the path was covered in ice, snow, and mud. Not exactly stroller-friendly terrain. I should have known better. I should have turned around. The practical thing would have been to find a different trail, one with pavement or at least a well-packed dirt path. But I wanted to make it work.
The stroller was capable, but barely. It wasn’t rolling so much as sliding, scraping, and sinking. I had to push it like a sled, then pull it, then lift it. It was a struggle. My arms burned, my legs ached, and my boots were soaked in slush.
Then I heard it—your laughter.
Pure, uncontrollable joy.
As the stroller bumped and bounced through the snow, you shrieked with excitement. You thought it was hilarious. To you, this wasn’t an inconvenient hike gone wrong; it was the best ride of your life. Every push through the snow, every slip on the ice, every lurch forward—it was thrilling.
There was no turning back after that.
We didn’t make it far, but that didn’t matter. The hike wasn’t practical, it wasn’t efficient, and it definitely wasn’t easy. But it was fun. And in that moment, fun was far superior to function.
Two takeaways from the day: first, I’m buying a hiking backpack—because carrying you would have been a thousand times easier. And second, sometimes, the best moments happen when we ignore common sense and choose joy instead. And honestly? I’d push that stroller through the snow again in a heartbeat just to hear you laugh like that.
Westerman.Blog 