This past weekend marked the season’s first snowfall, sparking a wave of excitement in my home as we welcomed a new puppy. The promise of building snowmen, sledding, and sipping hot cocoa with marshmallows filled the air.
As tradition dictates, families flocked to the local golf course to revel in the winter wonderland. Admittedly, we were not supposed to be there. Yet, such a beautiful snowfall cannot be wasted; it begs to be raced upon and slid down. The hills should be adorned with rosy cheeks and joyful grins, just as they are blanketed in glistening white.
The day before the anticipated blizzard, my partner embarked on a quest for sleds. No flimsy plastic ones would suffice. After visiting four different stores, we finally found sleds that promised the ultimate sliding experience.
I bundled the kids in their warmest gear and sent them off with their dad. Sledding on the golf course has never been my favorite pastime. It’s too cold for my liking, and the crowds can be chaotic and perilous. Each run sends me wincing; teenagers take reckless risks, kids zigzag back up the hills as others race down, many without helmets, and some children are left unsupervised. It’s a fast-paced, wild scene.
The near misses usually lead to a collective sigh of relief, followed by laughter as we bask in the thrill of the day. But not this time.
What should have been a close call turned into a tragic accident. One moment, a joyful girl was speeding down the hill with a friend, and the next, silence engulfed the scene. The unimaginable had happened; a moment that would change lives forever.
Numerous adults and children had previously remarked on the dangers of those hills. Yet, we often dismiss the small risks we take daily—whether it’s a quick text while driving or leaving our kids briefly unattended. We close our eyes and hope for the best, believing nothing terrible could happen.
But it can. It did. It could have been anyone’s child, even mine. Instead, it was a precious third grader, and I now find myself praying for her with every ounce of hope I possess.
From this day forward, my kids will no longer go sledding, snowboarding, snorkeling, biking on the street, jumping on trampolines, or even crossing to the bus stop. The list goes on.
As much as I wish to shield my children from every conceivable injury—both physical and emotional—I know it’s simply not feasible. We must live, laugh, and yes, sled. But we will certainly do so with helmets. Let’s call it risk management.
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In summary, while the desire to protect our children from harm is instinctual, we must also allow them the freedom to experience life, albeit with some safety measures in place.