Frightful Outside (and In)

We had a charming little blizzard here in Hoboken, New Jersey this morning. Wet, fat flakes that stuck to everything. It was beautiful. When the boys saw it out the window, I could barely get them dressed from all the jumping up and down and sticking their faces to the window. And then, the inevitable questions:

"Can we go outside and play?!" and "We want to build a snowman! Can we? Can we?"

Unfortunately for them, I'm sort of a taskmaster. A little snow wasn't going to mess up my schedule. I had a meeting to get to 30 minutes away, I had my coffee mug in hand, and my big fat answer to all that was "NO!"

You should have seen their reaction in our living room. Total anarchy. Stuff about we don't want to go to school!!! and we don't want to go in the car, we want to walk!! and we don't want to go with you, we want Papa!! (given the aforementioned Oedipus issue, I know it's serious when they call for Papa).

But I've learned to tune out almost everything. They could be crying about two sets of broken legs and I'm not sure I'd notice until an hour after they started moaning. It's probably not in their best interest, but it's one of my last remaining survival skills and I've spent years honing it. I'm not giving it up now.

So I just shoveled them into the elevator, not unlike a stubborn snowbank on a driveway, and pressed "1". To the garage, more shoveling. Into the car, more shoveling.

Then finally, they were restrained in the backseat like two mental patients and I could enjoy my coffee.

As we pulled out of the driveway and onto the street, Julian was suddenly deathly quiet (that's usually when I start paying attention).

"Are you OK, Jul?" I ask.

"Yeah. I just want to hear the snow," he says.

"But snow doesn't make noise when it's falling."

"Yes, Mom, it do. It do make noise."

I listened at the next stop sign when the engine was quiet. And you know what? It do.