Tuesday, December 17, 2013

Behold: The first snow day of the year



Ah, the first snow day of the year. There’s not much that compares to it.
Snowy roads no match for sledding hill.
It starts about 6 p.m. the night before. Someone (usually me) checks www.snowdaycalculator.com. It says it's a 99% chance of a snow day. Someone (again me) announces this loudly while standing in front of the TV. The children who were tired and grumpy are born-again revelers in high fashion fuzzy pj bottoms. I try to hold them off a smidge by warning them that the site has been wrong 99% of the time so far this year.
But let’s face it, we don’t care. A hope starts up deep inside and homework is tossed aside.
I start to meticulously check the Weather Channel app. I wait and wait for it, until yes, an orange exclamation point appears. A rise of excitement rips through me before I even click on it. Four to 6 inches? I try to steel against my hopes, worried about all those who have to drive to work in the morning. But I can’t help myself: I fire up 1989’s National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation. We’re staying up late and, mother of all inventions, we’re microwaving popcorn.
It’s a party before the party. Confession time: Moms want snow days as much, if not more, than the children. We fantasize to great lengths: No lunches to pack. No kids to drive anywhere. No basketball practice. No battle of the wills over what pants to wear. No pants to be worn.
11 p.m. – Everyone is in bed far too late.
Midnight, 2 a.m. and 3 a.m. – I check my phone. The orange ! is still on the screen. Trepidation and exhilaration have a social gathering in my chest.
4:30 a.m. – A check of the TCAPS website. Nothing. Check at 4:31, 4:33, 4:35. Give up. Start prepping myself for the Morning from Hell.
6 a.m. – Wake up to the buzz of a text. Aha! The alert from WLDR that school is closed! I rip my phone from the charger and nearly upend the dresser. My heart hammers wildly. Finally, I can sleep.
7 a.m. – Still can’t sleep. I can’t wait to see the kids’ faces when they get their first snow day. Something you can’t earn, can’t make and can’t buy. It’s bestowed upon them from above and placed lovingly across the ticker on the bottom of the TV screen. I turn off the alarm so the kids can sleep in. I wait quietly, proud of my restraint.
7:30 a.m. – A child races into the room. He makes a beeline for my phone. I say nothing. I don’t want to spoil the surprise and I also want to make sure he can read.
7:31 a.m. – There is shouting, dancing and spontaneous brotherly hugging. Finally, I can go to sleep. My work here is done. Just a pesky little deadline for the 48-page January-February issue on my calendar today…
8:30 a.m. – Without being told, the kids find their own mittens, hats and boots, all without flopping down in a pile by the front door and wailing in despair like every other school day morning. Outside reveals the most glorious of conditions: Fluffy white snow outlining the trees to perfection. When the kids leap, they disappear into a cloud of white.
9:30 a.m. – It’s time for the be-all end-all of snow day activities: sledding. While the roads are impassable for school buses, they are nothing for a mother with two waterproof children on her hands and half a tank of gas.
10:00 a.m. – Head for the sledding hill next to the school.  
Noon – The moms at the sledding hill stand around in the sunshine. We marvel over the heat wave – it’s 14 degrees. And we marvel over the road conditions – they’re better than they’ve been in two weeks. There’s no doubt it. It’s the perfect snow day.

Tuesday, December 3, 2013

Breakfasting on the couch

What is wrong with this picture? For one, it was not allowed in my childhood home while growing up. For another, it’s not allowed in my home now, while my kids are growing up.

Without my permission or even, at any clear point, my submission, the children have started breakfasting on the couch.

They have perfected the pillow table and I’ve invested in Scotchguard. No one could look at my sofa and guess that a thousand bowls of Froot Loops have sailed across its seas.

Here are the finer points to their technique:

Posture: The first step to a successful pillow meal is to slide all the way to the back of the couch, spine straight, pulling the pillow tight to your belly. Remain still at all costs, being sure to resist reaching for the remote to turn off the TV when Mom requests (shrieks) it.

Core: At no point can you breath, flinch, slouch, nor lean to or fro. Strong abs are key to this operation. One cannot and should not attempt this trick with 38-year-old abs.

Hand-eye coordination: Getting spoon to mouth is tricky enough... but to do this hypnotized by a yellow square and meowing snail on TV? Watching them doing it as if blindfolded is heart stopping. Again, this is a young man’s game.

Pillow: Choose firm and full pillows, stout like a plank of wood. Mom’s throw pillows — especially sentimental ones warned never to be touched, let alone eaten on — are ideal.

Attire: Stripping down to your undies is perfect because if there’s spillage, it’s easier to clean. And there will be spillage.

Wipes: Towels or napkins may be a good idea. A dining room table might even be a good idea. But no, only a box of Kleenex will be used. But do not actually touch Kleenex. Instead screech for Mom to come quick! Watch as each time she is shocked to see spillage, and each time she will grab the first thing she can — Kleenex.

Covers: A blanket wrapped from the waist down, without toes showing, is a must. Any spillage beyond the Kleenex can then be soaked up easily. Huge queen-sized comforters, impossible to put in the washer, preferred.

Waitress: Assume the position on the couch and holler for your mother. When she asks what you’d like for cereal, ignore her. Three times. When she puts the bowl of her choice on your lap (God forbid, with a banana on the side), make sure she knows she picked wrong.

Waitress, part 2: When she explodes, dump your cereal in your lap, thereby creating a distraction.

Waitress, part 3: This time, make sure she knows to bring Froot Loops.

Waitress, part 4: Leave at least ten O’s stuck to the side of bowl, which will turn to concrete by the time she remembers to pick up the bowl that evening.

The finale: Never finish the milk in the bottom of the bowl... because what else would there be to spill when it’s time to get up and get moving for school?