Waiting for the snow was excruciating fun
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January was a reminder of the importance of resetting and never giving up on the unexpected.
Across the South, we experienced a winter wonderland. My children's faces were astounded when my in-laws FaceTimed with us from their backyard in Baton Rouge. Their entire backyard garden was covered in drifts of snow, still coming down.
My in-laws had pulled out their snow gear from Iowa, something they thought they would never have to use again. Yet, here they were, trudging along, showing the kids all of the buried “treasures” under the snow and pouring boiling water from the kettle into the bird bath so the birds would have water.
It was a scene no one could have imagined.
After witnessing that excitement, though, we were in for disappointment. All morning, we waited. My weather app showed that snow would begin around 9 in the morning. About 30 minutes before, we started the bundling. Pajamas underneath clothes, topped with fleece jackets and puffers. I had gone to multiple stores that weekend in search of gloves to no avail; swimsuits and sunglasses greeted me on a mannequin. Instead, we used gardening gloves (because they’re waterproof) and topped them with socks.
For the next hour, we waited outside. My husband and I dusted off hats and scarves from our days in St. Louis. The kids ran around the backyard finding ice patches in their sandbox, swinging in the brisk air and marveling at how cold they were. But no snow.
Finally, they were ready to go back inside – the app had long since stopped showing the snowflake icon. Hot chocolates around the fireplace capped off the morning, an added adventure to our unexpected home day.
Fifteen minutes after I put my youngest down for his nap and as I was trying to help my twins with writing their phonograms, I saw the first flurries falling rapidly to the ground. Ollie, my middle child, had seen my glance and darted his eyes before screaming: “SNOW!”
It had finally arrived. The layers were abandoned briefly as the twins flew out the door. I followed behind, hidden behind a pile of toddler-sized garments. It wouldn’t last long, I knew. The flurries were melting as soon as they touched the ground. But that didn’t matter.
My husband woke up our youngest so that he wouldn’t miss out on the fun. The sticking out of tongues to catch snowflakes; the barking of our dogs as white flakes fell from the sky; the attempt to swing “so high” to catch the flurries.
It lasted about an hour: an hour of magic, of memory-making, of curiosity and ecstasy. And through their eyes, I remembered the joy of the unexpected and the need to seize each moment and be present.