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From my extensive research conducted in my household, there
are two kinds of snow parents. First,
there are parents who embrace snow as an opportunity to have rollicking outdoor
adventures that make memories of a lifetime. Those parents see snow pants and gloves and hats as the accessories to
one of life’s grand pleasures: playing in the snow.
Then there are parents like me. We see snow less as an opportunity to revel
in the miracle of snowy white parks and the joy of a perfectly-executed snow angel but more as a nuisance—a meteorological
pain in the rumpus.
I want to be one of the fun snow parents who jumps at the
chance to roll the snow into a man-shaped figure in the front yard. Someone like my husband, who never met a snowstorm
he didn’t want to play in. Just once, I
want to beat my children to the front door because I simply cannot wait to
partake of winter’s majesty.
I try to hold my children off long enough for my husband to swoop in and do “snow stuff” with them.
And there’s only one thing stopping me: I hate the
snow. I literally hate everything about
it. I hate how it feels on my face or when it seeps into my socks. I hate how it makes driving treacherous and
forces schools to close, leaving me stranded in my house for hours—or days—with
nowhere to go.
When the snow piles up, I pretend that I think it’s gorgeous,
even though it causes such an intense glare that I fear temporary
blindness. I pretend that snowball
fights sound like a glorious rite of winter, even though I secretly swear I
will punch the first person who throws snow anywhere in my general direction. I try to hold my children off long enough for
my husband to swoop in and do “snow stuff” with them.
Maybe it’s because I grew up in the Sunbelt and never saw
snow until I was well into my second decade of life that I just can’t force
myself to love the fluffy white stuff. I
grew up with images of snowy splendor without ever facing actual snow. By the time I
encountered real, live snow, I was gobsmacked to learn how cold, icy,
and unpleasant it was.
So my kids got one fun snow-parent, and they got me. To make it up to them, I’ve perfected my hot
chocolate recipe, which requires so much stirring and attention that I couldn’t
possibly also join them outside in
the snow. I mean, someone has to make
the après snow beverages. That someone
is always me.