The day before had been a sunny 69 and as I drove around from appointment to appointment I dreamed of taking my youngest puppy—my two year old son somewhere special the next day. Just me and my boy: Mommy and me time to make up for my absence. The little thumbnails on my IPhone promised another sunny day. It was settled—we were going to Muscoot Farm.

Forgetting to actually look outside I got the kids dressed in shorts and tee-shirts, packed the camera, and was half way to drop off my daughter at school before I noticed the clouds. Should we turn back and get coats, long sleeve, pants? Of course, the cold doesn’t deter my kids or dampen my son’s enthusiasm for pigs, goats and tractors, so I yielded to the chorus of “Nos” in the backseat and drove on. How cold could it be?

Well, it was cold. I was shivering. Miserable…wanting to be somewhere, anywhere, inside and warm. I longed for adult conversation and stimulating interaction, instead I was freezing, inhaling manure…with a looming decision of whether to start with the turkeys or the beeline to the pigs.

But then it hit me: the vision of my son, a boy in shorts, a miniaturized man on a mission. He paused immediately to take in the sheep—her teats protruding with not one by two lambs suckling simultaneously. Now that was interesting. The tractor held unlimited possibilities and photo ops. And then one of those moments every mother lives a question only a child staring up into the face of Bull would think to ask: “Mommy, do cows eat people?” “No, Bobo, cows don’t eat people, They just eat hay.” Relieved, we went on.

And so now as I scan through the memories of the week, one moment stands out—and not because of personal discomfort, but because I was there when my son asked a most important question, and there to hold his hand just in case I was wrong.