This February, we had snow, lots of it, but the first one was a real, full blown, blizzard . The yard went from bare ground to a complete blanket of two feet deep snow, drifts up to six feet tall and plowed snow banks almost as tall as the garage, all overnight. In trying to shovel out the front door, I waded through snow up to my waist. The snow went down my neck, into my mittens and of course down my boots. I did not enjoy the hours of shoveling, sweating and laboring. My children on the other hand, did.
During the storm, they didn't venture out into the complete white-out conditions. They preferred to stay warm playing with dolls, games and puzzles by the cozy wood stove. Then, they were busy harassing me to let them watch hours of pointless television, while I shoveled, alone. After the storm was passed, and the sun came out, they were gone, for hours, while I stayed inside to play Angry Birds and Swampy on my iPad, alone.
Both of my older children had oddly left their snow pants at school on Thursday, before the first of the blizzard. We do have various sized extras for emergencies, luckily. They weren't the right color, style or size, but to get out into the glittering whiteness, they worked just fine! We duck-taped their boots to the too short snow pants, and made sure to wear layers of water resistant warm up suits or long johns, underneath everything. Hats were tied on, scarfs wrapped around collars, and mittens firmly tucked well into sleeves. Most of these extras were shed within the first twenty minutes. I even found the vests, that had been under layered, discarded and hanging from the snowy tree branches.
Inside the house was pristine quiet. No crying or laughing, no needs or requests, no rude comments from the television, no more messes being added to the current mayhem, just me and my iPad, on silent.
Outside the house, I know the snow is deep, very very deep. Looking out the window, I see my children swimming. If my four year old was heavy enough, she would sink down to the hard ground, and the snow would be over her head. But, lying face down in the snow and moving their arms and legs, my three girls 'swim' across the top of the snow. Perhaps those hours of TV were not pointless, they look much like the polar bears trying to cross the ice in the Nature show.
The piles of snow I shoveled previously, reach up toward the sky, like Mount Everest to my three and a half feet tall children. As they scale the snow drifts, I can find their hats bobbing along and their bright coats powdered with snow, but their legs and boots are obliterated. They giggle and laugh together, pausing to help each other with stuck arms or legs, or to shed a scarf or hat. Up over the top of the mountain three victorious climbers pause momentarily at the top, then disappear down the other side of the mountain. I can hear them shrieking and laughing as they slide down the slopes and trek to their swing set at the very bottom of the backyard. Hoping they keep track of each other in such deep snow, I return to my indoor pursuits.
The sun shines down warmly from the clear blue February sky. My children have made paths with their bodies to their slide and swings, over to their secret hideaway in the rose bushes, and through the empty space which, will be known as a garden when spring finally comes. Their child-sized pink snow shovels were found leaning against the chicken coop. After stopping to pet their snowbound chickens, my three snow bears have created a child centered maze across our half acre, backyard lot. The snow piles up in fits and spurts, as they haphazardly threw and pushed the snow out of their way. In some places the path is three feet wide and scrunched down by the three little bodies that fell over, in others it is barely discernible as they took deep, trudging steps to their destinations.
From the warm living room I marvel at the difference almost thirty years makes in our approach to the snow. They are happy to create the path to the chicken coop, because to them it is play, it is enjoyable, they don't really seem to mind the snow down their boots making their toes turn to prunes. The snow banks do not represent the money payed to the plow man, twice in this storm already, and two more times to come, a hundred dollars at least. They could probably even make a game of bringing in the wood, if it was presented as hay to feed their imaginary herd of horses that live in the playroom. To them the deep snow is a wonderful gift, a new toy to be used. To me it is cold, expensive, and lots of work.
I put down my iPad and my embroidery. I will try to see it as they see it. Putting on my hot pink snow suit and a Hello Kitty winter hat, I become five years old. I am king of the mountain and zooming down the super sled slide on our back yard luge shoot.