Ah, the first snow day of the year. There’s not much that
compares to it.
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| 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.
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