This winter, my eight-year-old son became obsessed with building snowmen in the same corner of our front yard. Our grumpy neighbor kept driving over them with his car, no matter how many times I asked him to stop. I thought it was just a petty, frustrating neighbor issue—until my kid quietly told me he had a plan to make it end.

I’m 35, my son Nick is eight, and this winter our entire neighborhood learned a very loud lesson about boundaries.

It started with snowmen.Not one or two. An army.

Every day after school, Nick would burst through the door, cheeks pink, eyes bright.

“Can I go out now, Mom? Please? I gotta finish Winston.”

“Who’s Winston?” I’d ask, even though I already knew.”Today’s snowman,” he’d say, like it was obvious.

He’d throw his backpack down, fight with his boots, and wrestle his coat on crooked. Half the time his hat was covering one eye.

“I’m good,” he’d grumble when I tried to straighten it. “Snowmen don’t care what I look like.”

Our front yard became his workshop.

Same corner every day, near the driveway but clearly on our side. He’d roll the snow into lumpy spheres. Sticks for arms. Pebbles for eyes and buttons. And that ratty red scarf he insisted made them “official.”He named every single one.

“This is Jasper. He likes space movies. This is Captain Frost. He protects the others.”

He would step back, hands on his hips, and go, “Yeah. That’s a good guy.”

I loved watching him through the kitchen window. Eight years old, out there talking to his little snow people like they were coworkers.

What I didn’t love were the tire tracks.

I’m 35, my son Nick is eight, and this winter our entire neighborhood learned a very loud lesson about boundaries.

It started with snowmen.Not one or two. An army.

Every day after school, Nick would burst through the door, cheeks pink, eyes bright.

“Can I go out now, Mom? Please? I gotta finish Winston.”

“Who’s Winston?” I’d ask, even though I already knew.”Today’s snowman,” he’d say, like it was obvious.

He’d throw his backpack down, fight with his boots, and wrestle his coat on crooked. Half the time his hat was covering one eye.

“I’m good,” he’d grumble when I tried to straighten it. “Snowmen don’t care what I look like.”

Our front yard became his workshop.

Same corner every day, near the driveway but clearly on our side. He’d roll the snow into lumpy spheres. Sticks for arms. Pebbles for eyes and buttons. And that ratty red scarf he insisted made them “official.”He named every single one.

“This is Jasper. He likes space movies. This is Captain Frost. He protects the others.”

He would step back, hands on his hips, and go, “Yeah. That’s a good guy.”

I loved watching him through the kitchen window. Eight years old, out there talking to his little snow people like they were coworkers.

What I didn’t love were the tire tracks.