Damn. It’s cold outside. Seattle has had an unusual cloudless-blue-sky streak this past week, which has kept everything crisp. It’s been in the mid twenties, which may not be cold by Midwest standards, but by baby standards it’s a bit extreme.

On Sunday we bundled River extra good for one of our favorite hikes. Only a small section of face—red cheeks, red nose and little glazed eyes—were showing. We saw a mountain goat munching at the edge of a fern-laced cliff deep in an old growth ravine. I waddled bow-legged up and over rocks as River’s long legs now block my own. It was gorgeous and good to be out, but up top with an extra cold wind and River’s empty stomach, he lost it. We fed him quick-like and bounded out of there for fear of ruining the hike for whomever else was in proximity.

I could imagine folks wondering, “what animal is that?” while River screeched and warbled on. It took a bit of convincing, but I got the boy to sleep. Back at the car we were shocked to find River’s feet and hands white and icy cold—and the deep guilt of bad-parenthood set in.

Yesterday, I tried even more extreme bundling—hands and feet double socked before the thick fleece one-sy—but I only made it around the block before deciding I couldn’t handle another bout of guilt if he was cold again.

So we’re staying inside for the time being—the house cozy-warm, coupled with all the accoutrements necessary this time of year: hot drinks topped with whipped cream, christmas music and, of course, cheer.