Y'all, I LOVE the snow. I love the perfect, untrodden fleece of soft white comforting the ground and the rooftops, the scarves wrapped loosely around tree limbs. I love the serenity of no traffic passing by, no people rushing about, everything halted in time. I love the silence and peace hanging chilly in the air. I love the 6am phone call from the school district announcing the schools are closed and the text from work promising a free day off. I love the excitement of children waking up and seeing the snow outside their frosty windows, the squeals of pure, innocent delight, childhood memories in the making.
But y'all, I HATE the snow.
I hate the cold, wet bite of it. I hate the burning sting of it on my skin. I hate the cold, wet cuffs of trousers and sopping, refrozen gloves. I hate to see the untouched bright blanket blinking in the sun destroyed by boot trails and snowballs. Y'all, I'll admit it, I hate snowmen.
But how do I explain that I still love the snow, nonetheless? I love to watch my kids revel in the joy of snowplay, I love to watch my husband turn into a big kid when the snow falls. I love to observe the snow; I just hate to engage with it.
I am the World's Okayest Mom. While I loathe rolling large balls of snow into sad-looking "men" and throwing and/or being hit by snowballs, I do love making hot chocolate and building log fires and watching movies with my family, all the indoor joys of snow. I'll leave the outdoor frozen activities to the big kid I'm married to.
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