If I were in charge of the world (which I’m not, in case you were wondering), we’d get a foot of snow every day. Or at least when my fridge and pantry are full and I don’t have any pressing engagements. A foot of snow a day. For one month. Then spring. That’s what I would do.
But we’ll take the fourteen or so inches that fell yesterday, making it officially the coziest day in recent memory. No guilt that I should be volunteering in Peter’s classroom or that I have to run and grab some milk at the store. Just us, in our warm nummies, waking up to this:
After Dan and the kids waded out to the coop to check on the Kevins, and after finding one dead, we offered up a quick moment of silence for the fallen layer. Then we went inside and made eggs for breakfast. If you’re us, you’ll think she was egg bound, like the other that died this summer. You’ll think that because Chicken: The Essential Poultry Publication said it was common. You’ll think that because it’s the only cause of death in chickens that you know about, which goes to show how much you know about chickens.
This is what it looks like when you’re five and you have to walk out to the coop in the aftermath of a blizzard. You’re nearly almost buried. But you’re not worried because your daddy is right there putting a dead chicken into a grocery bag.
I spent a fair amount of time yesterday thinking about how terribly long it was going to take Dan to snowblow the driveway after work. So long. But if you live in a neighborhood like mine, with neighbors like mine, you don’t have to worry for long. Because soon enough the first Bruce (you know who you are) will come, cigar hanging out of his mouth, dog chasing after and begin plowing you out. Just because he thought it’d help. His belt will break and he’ll go away after a couple swipes, but not before you’ve sworn your everlasting fealty to him.
No worries that your drive will stay half-plowed, though, cause the second Bruce (you know who you are too) will come with his tractor. And it’ll be bigger. He’ll put his own comfort to sleep in the interest of freezing his cheeks off to get your driveway clean. You’ll swear your forever fealty to him too. And you’ll take pictures of both of them. But only through your windows when you’re sure they aren’t looking so they don’t think you’re totally weird. Which you are.
While the boys played out in the snow with neighbors (you know who you are), Tess, who never has a girl to play with, began the tedious task of signing her Valentine’s. Picked them out myself at Meijers then wrapped them up with a new Sharpie as if it was a big deal, only so that she’d be so excited about a just-because-I-think-you’re-great present that she’d forget she really wanted the Barbie ones all the other girls will surely bring. And if you’re five and your name is Tessa and if you are just learning that letters only make words if they are correctly oriented on the page, not just if they are all present and accounted for, just learning but not mastering, then you’ll sign your name a-s-s-e-t before leaning back in your chair and declaring it a job well done. Which, of course, it will be.