The kids came home from school saying that if they put ice down the toilet, spoons under their pillows and their pajamas on inside out and backwards, it would snow.
It must be a Southern thing. All my friends’ kids were doing the same thing on social media.
But still my son woke me at five a.m., shouting, “Mommy, mommy, it’s snowing!”
He did a snow dance in the blue black morning. We lay in bed together, watching the snow fall on the bushes. My eight-year-old tossing and turning, twitching, because of the snow.
In the morning, all I wanted was a cup of coffee. But you have to move fast in the South before the snow melts. I gathered the snow pants and the boots and hats and mittens. We got dressed and stepped outside in it.
The snow was thin and wet, barely an inch, but enough for snow angels and a little sledding.
I had to go to work and was nervous I’d be late. I was angry because I wanted to take the kids sledding and I wanted to be on time at work. And these two desires were battling each other in my brain, as they always do.
“Ethan Frome,” my husband said as I pushed the kids down the hill. “Worst suicide attempt ever.”
The geese had snow on their backs.
The best part was when I ran back to the house to finally get my coffee. I could watch them from the windows and enjoy it for a second.
From afar it looked so pretty.
But when you’re in it, it’s sort of hell.
The kids had a few runs down the hill before their hands got wet and snow went down their boots. There were tears and kicking of sleds.
I went outside to help and we all tromped back to the house, peeling off hats and mittens, snowpants and socks.
I rushed off to work, thinking, You never win, as a working mom. Never ever.
But it wasn’t until I came home again, at night, that I felt better about it. I looked at the pictures and wished we could do it again, even if it was exactly the same.