If only the first were the last

I must admit I love the season’s first real snowfall. The way it covers the lawn like a magnificent white blanket. Untouched. Clean. And oh so fluffy. But I’m going to be real. That serene moment is a brief one. After I’ve had the chance to admire the loveliness then I’m kind of over it. Yep. Just like that. Because I quickly remember that it means the temperature is below thirty two degrees. {Which is about forty degrees too cold}. Additionally, snow usually means ice. And ice means terrible driving conditions. While I may not be commuting to work outside the home anymore, I do drop my oldest off at school and pick him up every day. He is exactly like me and a snail’s pace is pretty much our morning ritual. So when you add snow to the drive, it just sets us both up for a rough morning. And I’m not really sure how many times I’ll be able to slide in after the bell rings and not have it become reflective of my parenting. Snow also reminds me that I probably have to scoop the driveway. The husband generally takes responsibility for the outside stuff. But he typically works long days and we do this family thing together, helping one another out when we can. Except dishes. He NEVER does those. Or bathrooms. Or floors. Or laundry. Okay wait a minute…why am I shoveling the driveway??? Kidding. Sort of.

If only the first time were the last

So even though it just started, I’m already over it. I realize we live in Minnesota so that’s just about as ridiculous as they come. But really, if it were entirely possible to have the first snowfall be the last, I would be more than okay with it. I don’t ski {anymore} because if I did, I’m pretty sure I’d have a hard time doing anything the next day that required…moving. And I kind of like being able to use my limbs regularly. I don’t ice skate {anymore} because let’s face it, it takes far too much effort to lace the darn things up. Okay…and I’m not very good at it. I’m not a hockey fan. Which I realize is pretty un-Minnesotan. I dated a hockey player in high school. My best friend was the hockey team manager. But it still didn’t convince me to take up any sort of fondness for it. And thankfully my son has never expressed any interest in the sport so I’m totally off the hook. I don’t like sledding. Because I’m thirty-five. Not five. We don’t own a snowmobile. Because that’s just silly. If we’re going to own a motorized recreational vehicle in the winter it’s going to be a Zamboni, to get us to and from school. And ice fishing?? HA! HA! And HA again.

Some people ask what do you do all winter then?! TOTAL HIBERNATION. I read. I write. I make tasty soups. I drink hot cocoa wine. I play games with my son. I cuddle with my little girl. I plaster my cold hands on my husband’s bare skin to make him jump. And I let all those people who LOVE winter take my spot outside. But you’re no fun. That’s okay. I’ve been called worse things.

I love this great state. I really do! But I don’t love the winters. In fact, I loathe them. Seriously. It’s a strong hatred. My husband might hate them more than I do. And our son is a pretty close contender. It runs in the family. We’re just not fond of the snow. Or the cold. And we ask ourselves every year why we didn’t pick up and move south. Someplace where families only dream of snow. Maybe someday. But until then, just know that our white blanket is always up for grabs. Have at it. We’ll be curled up inside; under quilted blankets, instead.

 

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