At 22 months old, Xander loves to play outside. We bundle up and walk across the back deck towards the stairs on our way to play in the freshly fallen snow.
"I think the stairs are very slippery. Do you want Granny to pack you down the stairs?"
"O-tay Granny," his reply, as he turns his innocent little chubby cheeks towards me and holds his mitted hands in the air.
He hugs me tight as I try to balance him in one arm and hold onto the railing and descend the stairs. I feel his love and trust and it warms my heart on this chilly morning.
"It's bumpy Granny. Bum-py!" Well actually I said slippery, but I choose not to argue.
"Yes monkey, it is," I agree.
We reach the bottom of the stairs and I set him on the ground. Xander immediately drops to all fours and begins crawling away from me.
"No no Xander. It's not that slippery. You can walk here on the snow - just the stairs are slippery."
I swear I actually got an eyeball roll from the wee child as he turns his face, which has seemingly lost all innocense, towards me and spews out, "I'm a puppy!" in a tone I can only describe as an adolescent adults-know-nothing sort of expression.
Yes, of course. Silly Granny.