Barnelopet

We trekked to Lubrecht forest, up Highway 200. You, me and Ollie. Silly singing, drive past Bonner, Milltown, twisted Blackfoot river foggy and heavy. We laugh, Oliver snores. Wet snow sliding down our windows. But we traveled, the three of us, tiny skis on the roof of the car.

You understood you were going to be skiing today. With the kids, you said. And the kids will be nice to me. They will help me ski.

Yes, babe, they will help you ski. We are going to the Lubrecht forest. Where you will put on your tiny skis and you will stare wide-eyed, frosted-cheeked, with no words, marvel at all the little kids around you on their skis too.

The Sons of Norway created this to show you how you must come out to glide and breathe in the familiar sting of cold. And to let you feel how much you love it. To let you safely "race" with the other kids. To let you feel like the meadow loop is far too long for you to really make it. But you did, with your mommy at your side.

And you went, glide, glide, glide, glide, glide, right across the finish line. A strong, tiny, little girl, only 2 years we've known, but there you were: smiling at the cowbells that rang out for your finish. And the medal went around your neck. Your little "stem" I always think, because it is delicate and soft and liste. And now it holds your medal.

I took off your skis, like you were my little Olympian. Carried your skis behind, let you parade through the snow crested path to the bonfire. You sat, still admiring the kids, sipped your hot chocolate, ate cookies made for you by those proud Norweigan grandmas.

You, every little thing about you, pushes my love and pride so far, my eyes sting.

My strong, sweet, confident, silly, brave, joyous little Beatrice.