In preparation for Friday’s snow day, I feel ready.
The internet and I had a brilliant confab about snow day activities and I’m prepared, muffin tins filled with frozen “friends” to rescue. I build an awesome fort in the kids’ bedroom and watched “the northern lights” projected across a blanket ceiling.
For a moment, it feels like magic.
Saturday and Sunday are a bit of a blur. The kids are full bore.
The other adult in the house and I are sick.
Survival is the name of the game.
By Monday, when it becomes clear there was no end in sight, that desperation only parents of very active young kids know, starts to settle in.
I begin to realize: these are not normal times.
And so the house begins to transform.
Up from the basement, your normal crash zone, comes the rebounder trampoline.
Up comes the nugget couch.
Up comes the actual tent that gets set up right in the kids’ room.
The piano bench becomes a launching point to the rebounder trampoline, which quickly turns into bouncing on the couch cushions. Life is good, in the barely contained chaos way.
And in the back of my mind, a quiet hope: no stitches required, because the driveway is becoming increasingly impassable despite the hours spent on the tractor with a snowblower.
As an adult, my thoughts begin to shift.
We check your diesel levels.
I think about what happens if the power goes out.
The bathtub gets filled.
Drinking water on the kitchen counter.
Bags of pellets are stacked beside the pellet stove and I cannot believe we’ve gone through a full pallet this winter.
You wonder if the propane tank is going to hold until the refill truck can make it through.
All of it swirls in my mind, like the snow outside.
But then I look at the kids.
I see them inventing.
Playing.
Learning.
I see my older child sharing wisdom with my younger child.
I see them using the tools built at Pathfinder.
And despite the worry about the diesel, I know that the most important thing is that we are all safe and warm and together. Not something every family can say.
I see neighborly spirit when someone rolls his rusty plow truck across his cattle field just to check on me as I work on snowblower chute. It’s clogged with this wet, heavy spring snow. I’m chipping away at it with a screwdriver and needle nose pliers. He rummages around in the truck and finds a spiral tie-down–the kind intended to tether an animal. It works like a charm. He tells me to keep it. It’s been sitting in the truck for years.
In that moment, I don’t know how many times I’ll use that spiral to clear the chute.
And then Tuesday comes.
The snow stops flying and the clearing work begins.
After five hours snow blowing, I get the kids outside. One says “But I want it to be summer.”
I feel that deeply in my soul.
And then, not long after, that same child is building snow castles, topping each one with the evergreen branches blown down by the wind. Sliding down the hill, over and over, fully immersed in the very season she was ready to leave behind.
And I know that this resilience, this moment of emotional regulation, this joy in playing outside regardless of weather, is a direct reflection of the education she is receiving.
My neighbor texts to check on me.
Our child’s teacher sends a note with activity ideas.
I send a check in text out to fellow parents.
And I remember:
We can get through this because of community.
We can find joy in the snow once more (even if it would be very, very nice if it took a break).
We remember that there is something deeply special about this place underneath the mountains of snow.
And despite all the trials and tribulations this blizzard brought, I can find joy: in a child playing in the snow, in a helping hand, and in the quiet knowledge that summer will come.
~A snow days reflection from Alex Maegdlin, Emmy’s (PreK) mom and Marketing & Communications Manager.