They went ice fishing this weekend.

By “they” I mean “not I.”

I did not go ice fishing this weekend.

I’ve made peace with a lot of the less desirable aspects of winter.  I don’t like the cold, but I’ve learned to wear a scarf.  I’m not crazy about the snow, but I’ve learned to enjoy its beauty.  I dislike having to pile my children in six layers of fleece and waterproofing before we go on a walk down the road, but I’ve learned to enjoy the nap-encouraging nature of cold weather play.  On many of these fronts, winter and I have called a truce.

But I see no reason to sit on frozen water and dangle a little fish on a line through a hole in the ice.  Winter and I aren’t that close.

However, there are some members of my family that do find that sort of thing entertaining.

So off they go, to do things like “jig” and bond and spend some time wandering about on a sheet of ice covering 100 feet of water cold enough to kill an adult human in two minutes or less.

See that tiny dot waaaay out there on the ice and all alone? That’s my three-year old. When you call Child Protective Services, make sure you mention it was her father who was in charge.

While they were doing that, I, and my erstwhile companion Sam, were warm and cozy at the library.  This combination seemed to work well for all involved, mostly because Sam and I came home with bunches of new books to read and they came home with this:

Which I suppose, if you feel you can compare apples and oranges in this way, was potentially more useful than books.  Especially once it turned into this:

Now this is the kind of winter bonding experience I can get behind.

As long as I am not included in it.

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