Snow. A lot of
it. So much so, that the schools closed
at noon today, truncating my office time and sending us all home to
highly-saturated togetherness. The
library isn’t even open. It’s that kind
of snow. It’s total shutdown.
And, in this kind of snow, I don’t do so well. Cold-tolerance has always been a challenge
for me. I can blame my California
upbringing all I want – and so can you – but the truth of the matter is that
I’ve always been this way. The kind of
girl who is always cold.
I flippin’ hate snow…
I can’t swear enough to drive this point home. The cold.
Chilly water. Luke warm is cold
to me. Tepid… Far, far worse. And, I can dislike this aversion all I
want. But, it’s still there.
Three children later, I find I struggle with this even
more. The flakes barely start to fall and I start pacing like a trapped
animal. Rain, I can do. Rain is good mood lighting for a little deep writing
riff. It’s a little slide guitar to what
can be a ukulele some days.
Quite honestly, I don’t know what to do with it. My biological functions of sleep/awake cycles
are screaming, “Sleep through it. The
bears do!” But, my kids are screaming at
the Wii - arguing and yelling at the computerized inhuman humans. I want to get some work done but my internet
connection is down. I want to read, but
the screaming won’t let me focus on the otherwise engaging text in front of
me. I can’t even pay attention to
Malala’s story. A great story rom what I
can glean from chapter one.
It’s a back-and-forth – a dull one that drives me bat-wit
crazy.
This confession comes with the realization that there’s a
part of me that wishes to the moon and back that I was a snowbird, snowgirl,
snowcat, snowperson. The worst part of
that is wishing to be something else.
It’s a bit like wishing away sadness.
The act of wishing it away causes depression and anger. I’m annoyed at
myself because I just do better in the sun.
You will never hear me complain that it’s too hot.
But, then again… I just saw my neighbor push one of her dogs
out the door and into the snow and the little Min Pin stumbled right back
inside. The other one, the albino Jack
Russel Terrior, peed and was instantly shepherded back inside with excessive
and congratulatory patting.
Glorious vindication!
Even the dogs don’t want to go out.
The cat’s asleep. And, me… I’m doing this. Being honest.
Mostly, because it’s the only thing that saves me from feeling like I’m
the only one who misses the sand and sea and the left coast masquerade of
freedom, neatly concealed until you get on the 405.
You and I can still be good parents even if we hate the
barricade of this particular day.
And, look. I’m
dealing. And so are you. Reinforcements being called in for the
balance of the week. Perhaps forever.
It takes a village.
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