Mothers I love to fry
Mothers imparting feral logic
Mothers in lactation frenzy
Mothers iterating life’s fullness
Mothers in like flint
Mothers in lustrous fortitude
Mothers in lonely friction
Mothers in Lucifer’s foliage
Mothers in lockstep formation.
Mothers’ irascible leverage force
Mothers I’d like to fluoridate
Mothers I’d like to forget
Mothers issuing lyric phraseology
Mothers insipid loady frights

My charge for the day, 3-year-old Ruby, and I are skipping down the snow-covered sidewalk.

“This is going to be so fun,” she giggles in time to the swish of her snow pants.

It’s Winter Carnival, and our destination is the symbol of all things ice-blue and festive: The Ice Palace.