Where two or three are gathered, parenting advice abounds.
That was true for Jenny, anyway, even though it looked a little bit different in the nineties. Ok, in theory the kids should do their homework before tv, but Rugrats only comes on at 4. Is it considered “teaching the kids to cook” if they are microwaving a cheese quesadilla? What time is Saturday’s play date at the all-metal playground again? How many times can I use these parachute pants as a sibling hand-me-down before it’s considered child abuse? Fruit by the Foot is absolutely not a meal, end of discussion.
Her philosophy varied from kid to kid, but one thing remained consistent across the board—snow days were sacred.
First and foremost, snow was a free toy, and it covered the entire yard. Yard upon yard of nature-made entertainment lay peacefully waiting just to be disturbed. Second of all, snow provided an immediate upside to a sometimes crappy situation. Who cares if the heat was out, when you can spend all day sledding anyway? Lastly, what most people don’t know about Missouri winters is that they spend most of their time being ugly. Mud. Gray. Naked, dead trees. Ditches full of leaves and muck. Ice and rain, taking turns. Snow happens every once in a while when the weather decides to do something pretty. Glittering hillsides were something worth celebrating and experiencing.
Per Jenny’s infallible doctrine; dawns such as these were meant for pajamas, waffles, cartoons, wet socks, dry blankets, and every excuse to take a quick break from the world and remember that kids were just kids. Power went out? Grab the camper stove and the board games. Roads are bad? Sounds like a great day for toasty naps. It’s fifteen degrees? Even better—find your boots and go play.
Imagine her children’s delight when the dead of January arrived and they awoke to a foot of snow frosting the streets. Smooth. Clean. Glittering.
The second oldest of them charged down the stairs, skid around the tiled corner and ripped open the curtains. The oldest sat in front of the tv, squinting at the tiny print scrolling down the bottom, fists clenched on bent knees in anticipation. The last, barely old enough to know what a snow day was, trudged down the stairs with hair sticking in seven different directions while rubbing her eyes. Just before she could complain about the noise, snow pants and gloves were shoved in her arms as the boys proceeded to dance around the living room while yelling at the top of their lungs. No time for breakfast, the whole outside was waiting.
They were very fortunate children, because the previous snowfall taught them how fun it was to gather up the visiting cousins, pile on a sled, and launch off the icy porch full speed ahead. The landfalls were epic and God help them if they needed to get to the hospital, but they continued the tradition with gusto either way. Snowballs were crafted and they waged all out war with them. One took on the task of engineering snow forts (nay, fortresses) of stunning proportions. The littlest sister made snow angels and screeched at decibels not previously known to mortals when the boys stepped in them. All three crafted adorable villages of miniature snowmen and promptly ran over them, executing all kinds of theatrics while observing the resulting carnage. The family dog, who asked for none of this, kept getting “discovered” in the snow and “rescued” from an avalanche like in that one movie they saw. They romped and rolled and raved until they exhausted every possible mode of play and finally —after hearing Jenny’s call—stampeded inside for lunch.
It was just in time. They had all been gathered around the back 40 shed, taking measurements and rehearsing a running start in order to try and scale the roof. You’d think they’d be more reluctant to disrupt their plans, but there was one more card in the deck—Jenny made spaghetti for lunch
Oh, spaghetti. Behold, this tomato-y nirvana that meant deliciously thawing from the inside out via warm belly after romping around the arctic backyard like a bunch of Neanderthals. Finger and toe-cicles are best recovered under the influence of pasta, and anyone with an educated opinion should consider garlic bread as its own brand of therapy. The best part of that day came from loving hands that made a meal, and every time I look back on it I remember that winter was often made most wonderful by how we warmed up.
Anyway, that’s the story of our very best snow day.
