Snow, man!

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For me, snow is one of those things like vegetables or Taylor Swift.  I understand the appeal, and it's tolerable from a distance, but I don't want it anywhere near me or touching my skin.

I'm just not a cold weather person.  I think snow skiing would be way more enjoyable if I could do it while relaxing on a lounge chair on a beach in Mexico somewhere. 

Unfortunately, my kids don't feel the same way.  And not only do I have to go outside and play with them, but getting three little kids (and myself) snow ready is a bitch.  On Sunday I tried to placate them by opening the living room window while I retired to my easy chair by the fire with some mulled wine and a book, but that only worked until they saw the neighbor kids out playing. 

"Hey, you said snow was poison and would burn our faces off if we touched it,"  they said, pointing to their friends making snow angels. 

"Well, I think it's time I told you... parents lie about a lot of stuff,"  I said. 

"Like what?"

"Well, ya know, about stuff like Santa Claus, there really is a place called Disney Land and I'm fairly certain the boogie man actually lives in your closet."

They stared at me blankly and I knew it was time to begin the snow prep.  Four pairs of snow pants.  Four heavy coats.  Four boots.  Four hats.  Four pairs of mittens.  Four tantrums because we all had massive unfixable wedgies.  Four de-robings because what is it about putting on layers that immediately makes your bladder scream for attention? 

I put on each layer slowly, searching for any hint of an urge to pee.  But, like clockwork, the minute I strap on those gloves I'm holding my crotch and hopping on one leg trying to undress in the bathroom. 

Eventually we made it out, made a snowman (sort of) -



- and I taught the girls a little game I like to call "snow smash in face." 

Turns out I'm pretty good at it, and surprisingly they were ready to come inside sooner than I thought. 

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