On Friday, the kids (and teachers) got their wish. NO SCHOOL. A forecast of 2-4 inches led school systems to call it a day late Thursday afternoon. The forecast had been in the works for a few days. I honestly don’t know why they just didn’t call Thursday a snow day as well. The minute, sorry, the second that kids picked up the scent of a possible snow day by stumbling past a television during the weather portion of a newscast they had cashed their chips in. Tweets, texts, posts flew furiously from their fingertips. Spread the word. Bigfoot had been spotted. I mean what were they going to learn on Thursday with thoughts of snow flakes clogging their brains? Kids don’t understand Mother Nature. She is fickle and will change her mind in an instant. So the concept of "let’s wait and see” means nothing to them. A chance of snow means SNOW!
Never mind that they were coming off a two-week holiday break. And it was already a short week. No, a snow day is that rare treat than stands on its own. So every hour of every day leading up to Friday included “We’re not going to school Friday, right? It’s going to snow, right?”
It’s easier to get kids to sleep on Christmas Eve than on a snow day eve. I can only imagine teachers have a harder time containing their anxiousness. It reminds me of Carly Simon’s hit, “Anticipation”.
So at 6:00am my son is up and making noises. He has to share the incredible glee that is about to burst out of him. Not only did he have the advantage of an early snow day closing, guaranteeing no school, IT HAD ACTUALLY SNOWED! Not the 2-4 inches previously predicted, but enough to cover the ground. And that meant one thing. He would get to hit his sister with a snow ball. Consequences be damned. He can live with an hour in his room or a day without tv or electronics or even a potted meat sandwich for dinner. The chance to uncork a fastball at an unsuspecting rival was just too good to pass up.
I will admit I was enjoying the thought of not waking up at the usual early hour to make school lunches and drive them to school in below freezing temps. But when a kid’s snow day body clock goes off it carries an avalanche effect. I opened my eyes to two creatures standing over me so bundled up they could barely move. The night before their snow clothes had been laid out. This did not go over well. Too many layers for the boy, not enough fashion for the girl. But if you want to play, you have to make sacrifices.
Fortunately for me the kids are old enough to dress themselves. Friends with younger children describe a living hell trying to get them dressed to go outside and play. By the time you finish they need to use the bathroom so it’s peeling the layers back off only to start all over again. It usually leads to late morning drinking, but hey, it’s five o’clock somewhere.
So it’s now 7:00am and I know there’s no chance of staying in bed for even a few more precious minutes. I’m dealing with my own snow daze as I stumble around in the darkness of the bedroom, putting on who knows what that doesn’t match. Their goal is to get me outside as soon as possible. It’s freezing, of course, and I know my top priority is taking photos. One, for the memory. Two, for proof that I actually went outside with them after receiving an order from my wife several hours earlier, “You have to go outside and play with them.” It was not a suggestion.
Snap, snap, snap. Done. Now to head off my son’s sinister plan to unleash terror on his sister. “Do not aim at the face!” I could read his mind. “Aim at her legs.” We proceed to joke and laugh, make snowballs and big plans. In my back pocket I know I have two weapons to save me if this drags on too long. “Hey, kids, who wants hot chocolate?” and “Hey, kids, let’s get warm for when Grandad comes over to get you later.”
But they are blinded. Not by the snow, but the fun in the snow. Hearing my daughter laugh that genuine laugh when she falls down in the snow and seeing my son celebrate hitting a target (not his sister) made everything worth while.
I even decided to get in on the fun. With my daughter distracted I rolled up a snowball and took careful aim to hit her in the back, lightly. And it didn’t matter. She let out a wild scream. The tennis ball sized snowball had found her shoulder blade, through four layers of clothing. There’s no way that could’ve hurt, but she was caught off guard and Dad was going to pay. So through all of my warnings and preparation my son got the last laugh without even throwing a snowball at her. He got the pleasure of seeing her squeal without getting in trouble.
The fun resumed for a while longer. Snow days are special, but I prefer them in singular form. Sorry teachers, but you’ve had your fun. Back to school on Monday. After all, it’s the South. It could be another year before we get snow.
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