Mommy Blogger April B. – Snow Day: A Pictorial
As many parents discovered this week, snow days are fun until there’s more than one of them. It’s at that point, children become caged animals and no amount of movie watching or cookie baking will pacify them. So on Tuesday, while the rest of the Panhandle began to unearth itself from our massive snow, I made peace with the realization I would have to get dressed and that I would have actually go outside with my children who were, by that point, hopped up on a snow ice cream high. I even managed to capture a debilitating bout of brain freeze.
Before we dared brave the tundra on the other side of our door, I laid down some rules.
(A). No throwing snowballs. Not at each other. Not at cars. Not at neighbors. And especially not at me.
(B). No rolling in the snow. No laying in the snow. No wrestling in the snow. Basically, the only thing touching the snow should be your feet.
(C). No eating snow. We’ve already done that and by day two, it was no longer clean and untouched.
So, these rules didn’t go over well. I was reminded of how mean and opressive I am. I informed them our sole purpose was to build a snowman. Quickly. At which point, we would once again seek refuge inside where it’s warm and I can catch up on The Young & The Restless.
But here’s the thing (and the reason for all my rules)…. we are probably the least prepared people for snow on the planet, at least when it comes to clothing.
Notice the gloves she has on. We have exactly one pair of water-proof gloves in our house. This is them. They’re mine. Circa 1987. She’s also laying in the snow, a clear violation of rule B, which was mandated because we have no waterproof pants.
Here’s my son. Upon closer inspection, you’ll see why this photo will not win me any mother of the year awards. Aside from the fact that he’s blatantly ignoring rule A (and obviously enjoying it) he’s throwing that snowball with a thin pair of knit gloves, which were soaked through after about the third snowball. Also notice his boots. These are fireman rainboots he got for Christmas. Because he has insisted on wearing them everywhere we go, every day since Christmas, they have already cracked. By this point, little puddles of melted snow had already formed inside his boots. Although, he obviously doesn’t seem to mind.
Although she is sporing appropriate outerwear, she also has thin knit gloves on, which are caked with snow. But she didn’t seem to mind either, so we went on about our snowman making mission.
We gathered snow and we rolled and we rolled and we rolled. And our snowman grew and he grew and he grew. These two were pleased with the finished product.
But this child was not happy with any of it. She’s 9 going on 16 so pretty much everything I say or do is wrong. She decided to boycott our snowman and build her own instead. I told her how to do it and she went to work. And then this happened. She ripped off her 1987 gloves and zebra-striped earmuffs and collapsed in a crying heap on the lawn… much like her tiny, little snowman.
Once we made it back inside and everyone had been inspected for frostbite and everyone’s clothes, shoes, gloves, scarves and earmuffs were sufficiently strewn across the entryway, and once I could feel my fingers, I emailed the hubs the above photo. He emailed me back and told me to tell her he had made that photo his screensaver. Though he was clear across town at work, I imagine we both cackled in unison, knowing just how much that would annoy her. And it did.