We try to get outside as much as we can, but it's difficult when it's so freezing. Even just 20 minutes at the playground is enough for Everett to let off some steam, so we do it whenever it's a tolerable temp, meaning 40 and above.

Two going on sixty-two. We worry that Everett will become an old man if we're cooped up indoors too long.

And the little one. All bundled up in a shell every time we leave the house. She doesn't seem to mind the cold, and always manages to wriggle one little hand out of her clothes, out of the sleeping bag cocoon she's zipped in, and up from the outside layer blanket, raising it high into the frigid wind. Like trying to submerge a floatation device, no matter what we do to tuck it in, weigh it down, or force it under, that hand finds a way of popping out and bobbing up and down above the many layers of inescapable warmth we've engineered. Inevitably by the time we get where we're going, it's bright red and frozen as a popsicle. It doesn't seem to bother her one bit, but it bothers the heck out of us.