As soon as my eyes blinked open and I heard the silence; I know exactly how the day was going to go…
I don’t mean the dragging quiet of lockdown, the rare muteness of my children sleeping.
I mean the howling shush of the falling snow outside my window.
For the third time this year!
Let me tell you about the first time…
It was wondrous, I dramatically declared a snow day, snapping the children’s laptops closed with a bang. I threw out shoes, hats, clothes and sledges into the hallway with an enthusiasm that is rare in Covid times and together we took to the hills.
How we frolicked, laughing and smiling as we zoomed down hill after hill, not caring when we fell into the soft, dog shitten snow.
We came home to cups of hot cocca, biscuits and a warm fire.
Damn it was a good day.
One that did not need to be repeated, as it held it own in happy history.
Then it snowed again.
The kids looked at me as I flipped the laptops on as I delivered their daily breakfast; one day off for snow is acceptable, two is not. Instantly the weather had turned me into a mamma bitch.
I promised we would go after school, which at least made the small one happy.
The other two declined to join; sledging it would seem, is only fun for teenagers if it involves abandoning school!
At 3pm, we climbed into snow clothes, my eyes rolled at the amount of washing that I knew was coming. We trudged to the field, dragging the sledge behind.
The “hill” is protected by a fence, that all must climb if they want to enter. Last time, I barely noticed it as I nipped over it, in my excitement to make some memories with my babies. This time, I was like a geriatric elephant carefully slinging one leg over the wood in an attempt to not fall and break my hip. Lockdown has been hardest on my waistline – if I fall – I simply may not get back up.
I pulled the smallest up the hill, dog crapping in front of me which I narrowly secured in a bag before stepping into it.
Sweat beaded on my brow and I think I was starting to smell.
She threw herself down the hill with joy, however, since we had done home school, the hill had been savagely brutalised by those who had chosen to truant. The snow was now a mess of soil, shite, twigs, holes and a scattering of the white stuff.
If I didn’t smell before, I certainly did on the return. It also looked like the washing would need to be pre soaked thanks to the mud and shite.
After an hour of freezing my knackers off, we eventually dragged the sledge home. Climbing the fence on the return trip was even more cumbersome, thanks to my joints freezing into icicles on the hill. This caused me to pause for a moment, my arse covering the sun, my leg frozen in horror as it tried to work out where to go.
A fat, old lass trying to climb a fence with a sledge is truly a sight to behold.
We were home, I slung gin in my hot chocolate and ate the contents of the fridge.
But at least it was over.
Is the bastard year not challenging enough?
Have we not enough to content with?
You sent it again…
The wellies are out, the gloves waiting excitedly.
The fence knows I am coming…
(The gin is on ice)