I love snow. I love snow in a way that only a girl raised in various parts of California and Texas far away from snowy places can. Let’s add to that. I reside in Portland. People who don’t live here might think we get snow. We don’t. Every year or two we get a little “storm”. It never amounts to much but it’s enough to keep the kids happy and shut the entire city down for a day.
It doesn’t shut the city down because we’re getting 5 feet of snow and and we’re shut in. It shuts the city down either because we’re a bunch of sissies that all close up shop at the drop of a hat or because there is a slick dangerous layer of hardened ice under the snow that causes treacherous conditions. The ice is the real danger here. Not the snow.
Snow we long for. At least I do. And K does. We spent the last week thinking there was the promise of snow here. K’s teachers seemed to be hoping for it too as the kids were sent home with instructions to wear their jammies inside out and backwards and sleep with a spoon under their pillows. We held fast to these superstitions at home in our quest for a fluffy snow day.
But it will come as no surprise that they were ineffective. We got nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Bupkis. Other cities across the Midwest and East coast got our precious flakes. We were left with disappointed youth. And a disappointed me as well. I wanted a snow day just as much as the teeming masses of children. A day to kick back and drink hot cocoa with my kid or go sliding down a snowy hill and fling snowballs at a snowman.
Instead it’s warm and rainy and all the kids I know want to take their ire out on the local weather forecasters…