Yesterday as I was driving the little angel home from Grandparent's Day at the Emerald City, I saw sleds in the window of the neighborhood hardware store. Red sleds.  Plastic sleds.  Sleds with runners.

It seldom snows in Kansas City (Kansas City natives may argue with me about this, as "seldom snows" is relative, but I grew up in Iowa, and dammit, it doesn't snow much here), but when it does, the hardware stores and Wal-Marts sell out of sleds in 12 minutes and 37 seconds.  My beloved and I have been talking about taking the little angel sledding since she was born.  We HAVE to have a sled.

We popped out of the car and into the store.  To my embarrassing levels of delight, they actually had toddler sleds!  Red!  With high sides and backs and seatbelts!  I put one down on the ground and the little angel crawled right in.  I pulled her a few inches.  "More!" she cried.

We went home and pulled her around the yard in her sled. The leaves actually helped quite a bit with mobility.  "More!" she cried.

We went inside.  I put the sled on the floor. She climbed in and attempted to fasten the seatbelt.  "More!" she cried.

As I folded laundry, I turned on Shrek II on HBO or some such channel.  She sat in her sled and stared, slack-jawed, at the television.  She's never really cared about cartoons before, preferring only Baby Einstein.  I wondered briefly how long it would be before she wanted to watch Sex in the City with me.  Or how long it would be before I could let her without guaranteed mental detriment.  Then I remembered that I actually read V.C. Andrews books when I was ten, and I lived to tell about it.  Right after Sweet Valley High.

Then I realized it's scary how rapidly we go downhill.  In our little red plastic sleds.  Whee!