Friday, January 21, 2011
One Snow Day Too Many
Another snow day; another day I wish I lived south of the Mason Dixon line - even if Yankees aren't welcome there. I don't care, at least I'd be warm, and able to leave my house without an ice pick and a bag of salt.
We've had an unusually high number of snow days this year. Maybe I'm being nostalgic in a 'we were tougher in my day' kind of way, but I don't recall as many weather related school closings as there seem to be now that I'm not the one going to school. The thing is, snow days, delayed openings, early releases, they begin to lose their magic after awhile.
The first snow day of the year is fun. It is. The glistening snow is soft and sparkly and all kinds of other wonderful glittery adjectives. The house is warm and cozy. A fire crackles in the fireplace. The Five Year Old declares it Red Blankie Day and doesn't let his fleece blanket leave his side. The kids laze around in pajamas and form elaborate army-man battles within barracks built out of the wooden blocks their grandfather hand carved for them. Cookies bake, pancakes sizzle, coffee brews. It's all Norman Rockwell-y good.
The second snow day of the year is okay, but not nearly as fun as the first. The falling snow piles up on the existing two feet that already surrounds the house. This new wetter, heavier snow is more difficult to manage even with a snow blower, and your back still aches from the last storm. The house feels cold and cluttered. The Five Year Old still clings to his blankie, which could use a whirl in the wash cycle. The army-man battles end in tears because the dog chewed most of the heads off the little green men that were left lying on the floor. Cookies still bake, pancakes still sizzle, and the coffee brews by the pot. It's all...okay.
The third snow day. The third snow day of the year forces you to question your existence, or more accurately, your decision to live in the Northeast. The snow that falls from the infinite sky of doom now completely blocks the back door. Despite the drafts hissing in through the old windows, the house feels devoid of air to breathe. The kid still drags his damn blanket around the house. Comfort item? Try dust magnet. Neither child ever gets dressed, which only leads to a massive crankfest of crankiness. By late afternoon, their pajamas are crusted over with breakfast and lunch remnants. Every last toy from Christmas has been played with. Twice. Cookies don't bake. They just stick to your thighs like lard laden leeches. No pancakes; cold cereal. But the coffee, the saving grace of the day, still brews.
One more snow day and I'm out of here. I'm already practicing my southern twang, y'all.