While stuck in my cozy, dirty house for days with my children (2 sick days + 2 snow days = 1 insane momma), I learned a few valuable lessons that may serve as a Blizzard Survival Guide for future generations. I am sending it off to SnObama and the Red Cross for their consideration. Screw the blog. I will receive fame, fortune and the Humanitarian of the Year award for this well thought-out plan.
Two Days before SNOMG
Stop by the Sears liquidation sale to buy gym shoes for daughter and leave with a heavy-duty snowblower the size of a Smartcar. During the process, roll eyes at husband, make a snarky remark that it’s overkill and won’t fit into the garage. Then silently wonder if he’s having a mid-life crisis. Decide that it’s cheaper than a sports car or girlfriend. Carry on.
One Day Before SnOprah
Leave sick son at home for quick run to grocery store. Panic when you can’t find a parking spot, but let out a sigh of relief that the shuttle bus from the retirement center is nowhere to be found. Politely shuffle through the aisles throwing essentials and comfort food into cart. Peek into other people’s carts to see what you are missing. Have a strange flashback to the Y2K stock-up freaks, stand in never-ending checkout line and suddenly remember that you left a kid at home an hour ago. Feel stomach sink.
Return home to find son safe, oblivious and playing video games while watching TV. Unpack and discover that there is no Diet Coke for husband. In the evening, take both kids to the pediatrician for peace of mind and aggravation and forget to pick up Diet Coke. Again.
Morning of Blow Hard 2011
Argue with daughter that she can go to school if she popped some Tums. Send her into crying hysterics because you don’t really believe that she is sick. Give in. Call both kids in absent, send them in their rooms and make it the most boring day possible so they never want to miss school again. Plan backfires miserably as you try to work from home.
Evening of SnowTorious B.I.G.
Snow will be in full force. Question if husband is really stranded at the train station where they serve vodka tonics. Get call four hours later as he attempts to walk five blocks home: “I feel like freakin’ Jesus walking through the desert!” Greet him with a rum and real Coke after he snow-blows the driveway. Cry when you realize that you have only one bottle of wine in the house and it has turned to vinegar. Watch bad TV and stare out the windows as they shake. Kind of pee self when the thunder and lightning hit. (Hilarious weatherman reaction.) Change underwear and go to bed.
Day Snowtastrophe Ends
Think (but don’t say out loud) your husband is the smartest and strongest Manly Man in the world for buying a huge snowblower that plows out your house and two neighbors who in turn, provide wine and Diet Coke. Find recipe to make frosty treats with snow and let the kids go wild. Experiment with vodka-lemonade-snow slushies. Decide they are no good, but drink it anyway. Break into wine, watch movie with Manly Man and feel the most relaxed in ages. No school again. No homework. No errands. No after-school activities. No schedule. No pants with constricting waistbands.
Day After Super Bowl Shovel
Kids will be home from school because of extreme freezing temperatures. Instruct them to do whatever they want so you can work. Two quiet hours later, find sugar, sprinkles, food coloring, lemonade, lemon juice, fruit juice, cups, spoons and bowls of snow all over kitchen and dining room as a result of instructions. Make mental note that sugar-infused slushies for breakfast is a bad idea. Rotate kids through stations of showering, reading (ha), video games, movies, crafts and eating while justifying my existence at work.
Night after Blizzaster
Still in awe of husband’s snow-removal performance, offer to pick him up from Y so he doesn’t have to walk home in sub-zero frigid temperatures. Thoughtfully warm up car 10 minute before pick up. Jump in driver seat wearing glasses and pjs, back out of driveway. Run over pile of frozen snow left by snowplow that ruined the perfectly cleared driveway from yesterday. Car will sit in snow like a see-saw. Turn wheel, reverse, spin, swear, turn wheel, forward, spin, swear. Run into house, fog glasses, call husband and explain that you are stuck.
Become too embarrassed to ask neighbors for push. Return to car and start digging to remove evidence that the frozen snow pile was huge and any idiot would have noticed that you can’t drive a car over it. (Well, if you actually looked at the end of the driveway before going in reverse.) Get on knees in pjs to break up ice pile under car with shovel. Swear. Wipe snot on sleeve. Wish you were wearing your padded bra — or any bra — because it is really nippy in more ways than one.
Strain neck to see if husband is coming before you can make a molehill out of a mountain. Chop, scoop, walk to pile, dump, wipe snot, swear. Repeat steps at a feverish pace to cover up really stupid move. When car wheels finally return to ground, drive two blocks looking for husband through fogged glasses. Decide that you have no business being on the road and will probably run him over if he is walking in the street and return home. Half an hour later, Pop-cicle comes home to a semi-cleared driveway and half-truths. He requests to thaw, eat and watch sports. Permission granted.
Retreat to bedroom with kids, a glass of wine and Kleenex for runny nose. Watch an old Muppet movie on a tiny portable DVD player in bed, nestled with lots of blankets, pillows and snuggles. Realize you are the luckiest person in the world and that there is snow place like home. And that’s snow joke. Sorry, for being a flake. I’ve been plowed for days…