I hate snow days. In fact, I loathe them. Okay, that’s a little harsh. I don’t actually LOATHE the day. It’s not the day off from school that I hate; in fact, getting a day to sleep in unexpectedly is wildly intoxicating. Not to mention the rare opportunity to get a jump start on cleaning, laundry, etc., etc. Even the kids being home isn’t the problem. The problem lies within that one word, SNOW.
Ugh, how I detest that word. Yes, yes, it’s pretty as it dances gracefully from the sky and we watch it all cozy in our jammies, clutching our mugs of hot cocoa and coffee. And we ooo and ahh as it lays on the ground in the moonlight untouched by footprints and tire tracks. But that’s where it ends. Because everything beyond that is just plain torture.
Oh, where to begin on why I hate the snow. Okay, first of, it’s cold. Yeah, I know, duh, of course it’s cold. But you must not understand, cold and I don’t mix. I am a beach lovin, poolside loungin, margarita sippin, flip flop wearin, heat miser. I like it hot. The hotter the better. I consider any temperature less than 70 degrees, frigid. Apparently, I was born in the wrong season, my birthday being in January. I also hate January, by the way. Way too much snow. And cold.
Secondly, snow is messy. Well, not the snow itself. The salt and sand and the kitty litter everyone throws down is messy. And it gets tracked into my house, eating up my new hardwood floors. Sure, I’ve screamed and ranted and raved “Take your shoes off at the door!”. I’ve put towels out and left slippers for them at the entrance. Do you think that matters? Of course not. The kids all just step over them and tromp all over the house, melting ice and evil salt dropping off their shoes en masse. And I scream like a lunatic and drop to my knees with a rag trying in vain to save my precious floor while they stare at me like I’ve recently escaped the insane asylum. Which is exactly what I feel like when it snows.
Then of course, there’s the whole “mommy can I play in the snow” to begin with. That sentence makes me cringe like no other on the planet. This morning, I heard my daughter approaching me from behind in a stealth manner that could only mean one thing. I ignored her the first time she said it, closing my eyes just like our cat does when she doesn’t want you to see her. Maybe if I close my eyes tight enough, the kid wouldn’t see me.
Nope. She found me and started tapping me. “Mommy? Mommy? I want to go play in the snow.” I kept my eyes closed even tighter. Maybe she would walk away and forget about the whole thing.
No such luck. She began to shake me and shout in my ear. “Mommy did you HEAR me? I want to play outside!”
I threw my hands up in the air and wailed, “But why?”. Because I know exactly how this is going to go down. We will spend 17 minutes looking for a matching pair of gloves that the dog has not chewed a hole in. We will spend 8 minutes arguing over hat versus earmuffs. (I will win that argument and she will wear both…it was 5 degrees this morning). We will spend another 6 minutes in an argument about a scarf in which I will also be victorious, but only initially. I will find the half chewed scarf in the yard in April. After that, we will spend 11 minutes stuffing her into her snow pants which she has grown out of since last winter and then another 9 working on the boots for a grand total of 51 minutes in preparation to go outside. I will then shove her out the door because I don’t do cold. After fifteen years of shoveling, I finally have a kid old enough to do it for me when the hubby is at work so technically, there is absolutely no reason for me to even step foot out the door. I have remote start and for a price, the kid will even clean off my car.
Anyway, remember how long I said it took to get the little one ready to go outside? Subtract 42 from that number and that’s how long she will stay outside. Which makes a hour out of my life that I will never get back again. AND she will track snow through the house as she seeks me out to stop what I’m doing (most likely shoving the previous batch of wet snow clothes in the dryer) in order to demand hot chocolate. Which is why I suspect is the only reason she wants to go outside to begin with. What’s more, we will repeat that process at least four more times on a snow day.
I’m looking at my friends’ pictures on Facebook as I sit in my cozy, warm house. Most of them are sledding or building a snowman with their kids and everyone is smiling and happy with their blue lips and pink cheeks. I feel a twinge of guilt about being a bad mommy because I refuse to play in the snow. Mommy doesn’t want to make a snowman or sled down a freaking hill at dizzying speeds. I don’t want my hands or feet or nose or any other vital part of my anatomy wet and frozen. But then I think, I’m a summer girl. I’m not a bad mommy in the summer. I’ll take you to the ocean and splash in the waves with you any day. I’ll play Marco Polo in the pool and run through sprinkler with you. We can build a sand castle or dig to China on the beach if you’d like. But please, dear child, don’t ask me to go outside with you in the snow. Shouldn’t you be in school, anyway?