Diary of a Snow Day

When you live in Green Bay, you are going to have snow days. That’s just the way it goes. Kids are going to be thrilled by the unexpected day off school. Moms are going to want to pull their hair out and start drinking by 10:30 a.m.

In my house, the snow “day” starts the evening before at bedtime when my two normally well-behaved young ladies turn into psychotic puppies on methamphetamines. “Are we gonna have school tomorrow? Are we, are we, are we?!?!” I watch as they ping-pong from their bunkbeds to the front window, checking every 30 seconds for the amount of accumulating snow.

“We’ll have to wait and see,” I tell them, desperately trying to keep my 7-year-old from ricocheting off the ceiling. Then I utter the four most useless words in the English language: “Now, go to bed.”

Hours later, they are still whispering and giggling as I’m packing their backpacks (fingers crossed) and praying that the weather gods will go easy on us.

No dice.

4:10 a.m. The children I normally have to drag out of bed at 7 a.m. for school are up, wide awake, and have pulled every blanket, pillow and stuffed animal they own into the living room. “Snow day! We made a fort,” they tell me through mouthfuls of sugar cereal, the colorful crumbs of which are being ground into the carpet. I turn the cartoons down from rock-concert level and stagger back to bed. However there is no sleep to be found as “World’s Loudest Snowplow” makes repeated passes down our street.

5:30 a.m. “Mom? Are you awake?”
Me: “No.”
7-year-old: “Can you make us some pancakes? We’re out of Fruit Loops.”
Me, checking time: “Maybe in two hours.” Pause. “How are you out of Fruit Loops already? That was a brand new box.”
7-year-old: Pause. “We might have spilled some.”

6:08 a.m. “Mom? Can we have pancakes now?”
Me, sighing: “Yeah. Just give me a minute.”
11-year-old: “While we’re waiting, can we go outside and play in the snow?”
Me: “The sun isn’t even up yet!”
11-year-old: “That’s OK. We took all your flashlights.”
Me: “No going outside in the dark.”
11-year-old runs from the room: “We can’t go play until it’s light out!!” Front door opens and closes repeatedly.

8:17 a.m. Pancakes are made and eaten. Counters are wiped clean of syrup. Several cups of coffee are consumed (by me – none for my meth puppies). Any hope of having a productive day has gone out the frost-covered window.

8:41 a.m. “Can we go outside now?” Coats, boots, snow pants and mittens are located and distributed.

9:06 a.m. My 7-year-old informs me, “My sock feels weird.” She takes everything off, including T-shirt. Sock is adjusted. Re-dressing ensues.

9:24 a.m. Both girls are dressed. Both have to go to the bathroom. Process begins from scratch.

9:47 a.m. Both girls are dressed and out the door. I ponder a catnap.

9:50 a.m. “We’re cold. Can we have hot cocoa?” I resist urge to run for the vodka.

9:55 a.m. Hot cocoa spills from microwave, all over stovetop to 11-year-old’s slippers (which she “borrowed” from me).  I clean up while girls argue over whether to have marshmallows or whipped cream in their cocoa.
Me: “You can each have what you want! What is there to fight about?”
7-year-old: “She already put a marshmallow in my cup and I wanted whipped cream!”
Me: “You can each have a little of both.” I cringe and whisper apology to nutrition gods and our dentist.

10:08 a.m. “Can we play Play-Doh?”

10:13 a.m. “Can we play Legos?”

10:16 a.m. “Can we go downstairs and watch Netflix and re-runs of ‘Chopped’ all day?”
Me: “YES!” Mom guilt commences in three…two…one…

(Have you ever had a snow day like this? I’d love to hear about it in the comments section! Thanks!)

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