Today was another Snow Day.

I’m nearing the end of The Prince of Tides.

I had to watch “American Idol.”

And make dinner.

And do laundry.

All of this non-drama gives me very little material for mulling over here.

But tomorrow?  The snow is melting, school will resume and there’s nothing I want to watch on television.  So, stay tuned.

Seriously.  Global warming?  I only wish.  We’ve had snow on the ground for a solid week now.  Last night it snowed again.  The kids had yet another snow day.  Even they have grown weary of the cold.  We live in the land of “mild” winters . . . rainy winters . . . green winters full of umbrellas.

But!  This afternoon, I spent three solid hours organizing my scrapbooking supplies in anticipation of Saturday when I will spend a whole day sorting through pictures and putting them in scrapbooks.  That was kind of fun, even though I have this super sore spot right between my shoulder blades.  I haven’t touched my scrapbooks since last February when I went on that scrapbooking weekend with four other women, despite my best intentions to scrapbook regularly upon my return.

Tomorrow, school will start on a two-hour delay.  You’d think that three or four inches of snow wouldn’t incapacitate a place like it does here, but the problem is that our cities and counties are not equipped to handle snow removal.  Some winters we don’t get any snow at all.  So, when the snow falls, and the temperatures drop, if any of the snow has melted, it turns to ice.  And if the snow hasn’t melted, it gets compacted into ice.  We have no snow plows or de-icing trucks for the side streets.  Some places, they only put sand on the roads which does not melt ice.

Add that to our hilly geography and we are stranded in our houses, imprisoned by the slopes that surround us. 

I need to leave my house.  Need.  I need to leave. 

I hope the snow melts soon.  Supposedly, tomorrow it will get up to forty degrees.  I hope it does.

Meanwhile, the stomach virus wends its way through the family.  My husband is better now . . . one of my 13-year olds just informed me that, “Mom, my stomach hurts and I just used the bathroom and it still hurts!”  My 4-year old seems well and is sassy as ever.  I am the only one who hasn’t been sick and I keep declaring that I simply won’t get it.  Can you will yourself not to get a stomach virus?  I’ll let you know.

Meanwhile, bring on global warming!  I’m ready!  My icy sidewalk beckons you!

At 11:20 p.m. last night I dragged a spare comforter and three pillows to my daughter’s room.  She thought she had already slept (she had been in bed, until she threw up over her blankets a little after 8 p.m. and since then, she’d been watching videos in her room, laying on the floor, in the dark) and balked at going back to bed, so we both slept on the floor.  She woke up periodically throughout that long night to lean over the vomit-bowl.  I think I was awake more than I was asleep because I am an old woman who doesn’t sleep well on the hard floor.  Whenever I heard she stir, I’d grab the flashlight so we could see (she doesn’t have a nightlight) and then I’d wait as she gaggd over the bowl.   

At some point in the pre-dawn darkness, she wanted to go downstairs and for whatever delirious reason, I agreed.  So, I took my blankets and pillows and relocated to the recliner.  She laid down on the couch and, after a lot of talk, slept.  The recliner was an improvement over the hard floor, so I was grateful.  When dawn came, she asked for a “kid show,” so I turned on the television and slept, sort of, some more.

By 8 a.m., I realized she hadn’t been sick a long time.  So I abandoned her, went upstairs and crawled into bed.  I slept through the noise of my husband getting up, the boys showering, my daughter talking and only when the phone rang at 10:20 a.m. did I really wake up for good.  (My son was invited to go sledding–and I thought I sounded perfectly wide awake, completely lucid, but my friend said, “Are you getting sick?” and I launched into my description of the Night of Vomit.  I hate it when I offer too much information.) 

Anyway, by the time my husband returned home with the teenagers (from P.E. class), I had growing hope that I’d be able to get out today after all.  My daughter seemed well and the sun shone and . . . my husband mentioned that his stomach hurt. 

I confess that I really, really, really wanted to roll my eyes because HOW DARE HE GET SICK ON MY DAY OFF?  I’m not sick and I’ve been touching vomit!  But I decided to be a grown-up and spent the day puttering here and there, reading the newspaper, catching up on the laundry, answering email and providing activities for my daughter (painting, Play-doh, scissors and paper . . . the fun never ends!)  I put dinner in the crock-pot this morning and made myself notice the lovely sound of a dishwasher at work. 

Why fret when there’s nothing you can do to change things? 

Besides, tonight, “24” continues and I think that just possibly, I won’t miss a minute.

(Also, my daughter naps at this very moment and how much do I love the quiet moments when she isn’t asking me questions?  And the boys are all outside playing in the frigid, icy yard . . . I’m practically alone!)

Snow covered our world today, but just barely.  Nonetheless, school was canceled, much to the joy of children and school-at-home mother alike.  By 9:15 a.m., we were all out in the winter wonderland, me snapping pictures, the older children flinging snowballs and the youngest two stomping circles and following tracks.

At one point, I looked up from my muffin-making in the kitchen and saw an unfamiliar face.  I asked his name and said, “Who is your brother?”  He said he only had a sister and I said, “Have you been here before?”  He hadn’t. 

That means, this neighborhood has fourteen boys between the ages of 8 and 13 . . . more, if you count the family I don’t know in the corner of the cul-de-sac whose boy doesn’t really come out to play and the boys who only come to visit their dad occasionally next door. 

My 8-year old couldn’t stop lamenting the totally unfair snowball fight in which he and the little kids fought against the big kids (four of them).  He said, “I was pelted by about 637 snowballs.”  Then he lifted his shirt so I could check his back for bruises.  (Bruise-free.)  I thought about bawling out the big kids, but then decided that boys need to sort out these things for themselves.  And one day, the little kids will be the big kids and maybe they’ll be more compassionate.  Or they’ll get revenge. 

What this blog needs is a little drama.  And so I offer “alma’s” comment on this post from 2005.  As you can see, I felt like leaving “alma” a little comment of my own since her email address was fake and I wasn’t able to email her directly.  Seriously, what kind of moron leaves comments like that on a perfect stranger’s blog?  I’ll tell you what kind:  a coward.  I can’t stand a coward.  If you want to insult me, at the very least, leave me your actual email address and your blog address and, what the heck, your social security number. 

So, last night, the face-numbing drugs finally wore off at about 7:30 p.m. . . . at the moment I realized I had sensation in my face again, I was in a racquetball court with my 4-year old daughter who thought that throwing the ball and then flinging her body to the floor was the very pinnacle of hilarity.  I played my own private game of keep-away . . . whenever I got my hands on the ball, I hit it to the wall until she’d grab it again.  We only stayed in that room for twenty minutes–the rest of the hour we pranced around the track, drank from the drinking fountain, watched kids swimming in the pool before we sat down to watch the last fifteen minutes of Judo. 

When my daughter sits on my lap, her fuzzy curls are right in my face and if I move to one side, she moves that way, too.  If I move to the other, she veers.  Then she wiggles and squirms and leans and frankly, it’s very unpleasant as she is not a cuddly, still child.  So, I did not enjoy holding her bony butt as I perched on the hard metal bench while she threw herself toward the floor, depending on me to stop her from cracking her skull open.

However, we were home before the college championship football game was over, so I was able to catch the last minutes of Florida State wiping up the floor with Ohio, which was rather delightful because our youth pastor (who is from Ohio) has been insufferable all fall as he’s boasted about his team.  I think I speak for many of us when I say that we look forward to harassing Jeremy and taunting him with the same measure of venom that he has taunted us (and when I say “us”, I mean a random collection of us, we know who we are).  All in good fun!  Gotta root for the underdog, you know.  (GO BOISE!)  Most of you are looking around wondering what I’m talking about.  Okay, moving away from football and onto other topics.

Uh, other topics. 

Let’s see. 

Weather:  We had a storm today, one of those blustery, rain-beating-sideways, cold, please-trees-don’t-fall kind of storms.  The stars are visible tonight, but supposedly, snow is falling somewhere in this area (but not at my house) and then tomorrow, our high temperature is supposed to be thirty.  Which is cold for those of us with webbed toes who live in the rainy Pacific Northwest. 

Television shows:  Only five days until “24” starts!  “Apprentice” . . . how annoying is that Frank guy?  Will “The View” survive the Rosie/Trump/Barbara Walters debacle? 

Today’s lunch:  Canned tuna.  Triscuits with melted cheese.  Walnuts.  Orange.  Diet Coke.

Reading:  Pat Conroy’s Prince of Tides.  (For the second time.)

Last movie seen:  “Children of Men.”  Disappointing, but I ordered the P.D. James book to read, hoping to redeem the experience. 

Tolerance for anonymous commenters:  Zero.

What I did today:  Oversaw math, grammar, literature, history, science, art lessons.  Babysat two kids.  Answered a ton of email (except for those who don’t leave an address, YES, I MEAN YOU, ALMA).  Washed laundry.  Dried laundry.  Cooked dinner (chicken, roasted potatoes, roasted sweet potatoes).  Exercised 45 minutes.  Shopped for groceries.

People I like:  Everyone but “alma,” Osama bin Laden and Borat. 

What I’m wearing:  Ralph Lauren khaki-colored denim pants, long-sleeve t-shirt with tiny black, brown and khaki stripes.  Tan sweater from Lands End. 

Why I allow stupid comments on this blog:  I must be bored.  Also, sometimes I like to provoke people who sit in judgment of me because oddly, I find those dimwitted people amusing to watch when they realize they just threw a rock at the wrong target.  And, also, this is a fair and balanced blog where we offer the opposition a chance to make fools of themselves at no extra charge. 

If you could hear me speak now, you’d think I am recovering from a major stroke.  When the dentist jabbed my gum-line and said, “Can you feel that?” I yelped out an indignant “YES!” and so he asked for the long needle and stuck me again.  That’s why my whole face, including tongue, is numb.  It’s 5 p.m. and the appointment was at 2:30 p.m.  Will I ever have feeling again?  

And while he was drilling on my right bottom molar (the unequivocal Worst Sound in the World), my left ear canal tickled and itched.  My hands went to sleep, I reclined so long with them folded on my chest (like a corpse in a casket).  My neck popped like someone’s knuckles when I was finally able to move again.

All in all, what a delightful day!

My husband ordered pizza for dinner.  He wants to watch some sporting event (football, most likely) and thus, has asked me to take our son to Judo.  And he actually suggested I might want to take our daughter and the boys so we can all swim.  Uh.  No. 

I’ll take our daughter so she can chatter and run and beg me for a treat out of the vending machines.  I mean, I’ll take her because I’m a kind, giving, generous wife who will do unto him as I would have him do unto me.  (He’ll owe me.)  I’ll take her because she’ll think it’s Fun and I want to make sure she has enough Fun in her little life. 

If I were a kid, someone would have bought me a milkshake and let me watch television for the rest of the day. 

Those were the good old days.

The problem is that I suffer from a lack of imagination.  While women are rising through the ranks of government, I can’t stop wondering whether growing out my bangs was really such a great idea.  While some women believe they can make eggs looks like festive little packages, I consider whether mopping the floor really matters when you have four kids and half the neighborhood running through the kitchen.  While yet others open schools for underprivileged children (spending forty million dollars in the process), I decide to let sleeping teens lie at least a little longer before forcing them to confront math and their arch-nemesis, composition.

I have low standards.  I wasn’t always this way, but I have sunk to this level after time and kids have eroded the walls surrounding my long-nourished perfectionism.  Now, the flood-waters of mediocrity have seeped in and I have flung myself into the murky soup in complete resignation.  Face it, I’m not raising the singing Von Trapp family or managing an obedient houseful of seventeen children like Michelle Duggar.  I’m just flailing around, trying to stay afloat.

A greater imagination would elevate me above my current cluttered surroundings and into the realm of accomplishment.  Remember that saying you probably encountered in high school:  “If you can believe it, you can achieve it”?  Do you believe that?  I don’t.  But then again, I suffer from a lack of imagination and even worse, a healthy case of pessimism.

I really did think I’d be a better mother than I am.  (I believed it . . . did I achieve it?  See how that saying breaks down under scrutiny?)  Now, midway through the years of having children at home, I wonder if I’ve squandered the teenagers’ childhoods.  Did I do all I could do?  Do they have enough happy memories to sustain them through the rigors of adulthood?  Is the foundation of their childhood strong enough to support the rest of their lives?  When you have a 13-year old, are you supposed to be able to peer into their eyes and see a successful adult lurking somewhere in the shadows of their futures or do all mothers despair of their kids ever voluntarily wearing deodorant and putting their shoes away?

These thoughts brought to you by a mean headache gripping my forehead, jarring my brain and reminding me what happens when I run out of Diet Coke with Lime.

Updated:  What do you know?  Someone knocked at the door, just after lunchtime, and it wasn’t a neighborhood boy.  It was a friend who brought me a 12-pack of Diet Coke with Lime.  What a delightful surprise!  Thanks, friend.