It’s snow problem
My daughter had little trouble persuading me to stay home one recent day when school had been canceled. It was bitterly cold, and the ground and roads were covered with snow.
“We can watch movies and drink hot chocolate and build a fire,” she said sweetly, handing me the phone so I could call work.
I pictured us snuggled under a blanket watching Indiana Jones movies while the fireplace crackled and popped. I imagined a mid-day nap, our bellies full of tomato soup and grilled cheese. I pictured a board game or two, some time with a book, perhaps even the two of us concocting some sort of sinful dessert.
What I experienced instead was a nine-year-old who could find not a single thing appealing about staying indoors, who relentlessly called the time/temperature number to see if it had gone above ten degrees, and who was willing to agree to any terms I proposed if it meant she and I would go out in the snow.
And so, with her first date age renegotiated to 28, we began putting on layers until my other requirement had been met (joints could not bend more than 15 degrees), then we shuffled outdoors. Where I quickly learned that children have only one use for adults in the snow–to serve as targets.
I’m not sure where the other children came from, only that there were many of the stiff-armed, stiff-legged, static-haired creatures. In a scene reminiscent of Day of the Dead, they all waddled toward me, flinging packed snow so cold it would not stick together, but instead exploded into a white mist.
Luckily for me, I happened to be carrying Celeste’s round plastic sled, which worked beautifully as a shield. Unluckily for them, it also worked nicely as an oversized scoop.
After I began gleefully demonstrating how a large scoop is vastly superior to wee mittened hands, the kids scattered in that comical, slow motion way that rigid-limbed children tend to have in the snow. But before I could savor my clever use of the sled, I realized they were strategically spreading out, encircling me. Soon, I was being hit from all sides.
Children have far more tolerance for cold than adults, and it wasn’t long before I was so thoroughly frozen that my shadow stuck to the ground. When I stepped back, it snapped off. I needed to flee.
“Look! Reindeer!” I yelled, pointing behind them.
It successfully distracted the two five-year-olds long enough for me to break through the hole and start quickly clomping for home. I felt what I thought was a rock rattling around in my boot. It turned out to be a toe.
My tormenters lurched after me, the air filled with their indignant squeals and the swishing of nylon on nylon as they tried to chase down their prey. Bursts of snow exploded over my head and found every minute gap of bare skin. (It’s amazing how little people who are incapable of hitting a hamper from 3” away can manage such wicked accuracy when they choose.)
I’d never been so cold in my life. I tried to brush some stray hairs off my face and they broke clean in two. I passed a neighbor just as he spit and was nearly hit by the ricochet. I tried to flag down a passing zamboni but it wouldn’t stop.
(There wasn’t really a zamboni, but it’s such a cool word I just had to use it.)
I was saved when the children spotted another slow-moving adult—some poor guy who had an extremely large (target-worthy) head. I heard their whooping war cry. I shivered, and not just from the cold.
Although it took a 40-minute hot shower for me to coax the blood back into my extremities, in the end, I realized the day had given me just what I was after. Some time to just chill.
