See, now, I think I've been utterly patient and reasonable about this whole snow business this winter. Have you heard me complain? Have you heard a single whine from this corner? No. I have been practically English in the stiff-upper-lipped-ness of it all. And there's been a decent amount of snow this winter, too. Just a few weeks ago I was standing at the window, cup of tea in hand, gazing out at the endless white, white, white, feeling a tad forlorn, when it occurred to me, hey, you know what? You live in Colorado. It may be time to get over the fact that it's December...and snowing. Buck up, buttercup.
And I DID. I have borne the cold and the snow well, I think. But. Christmas morning we awoke to find that there was snow happening outside. I'd heard there might be a few inches on Christmas Day, so I wasn't shocked. However, I was expecting a few inches. One to three inches is lovely, nature's Christmas decoration. EIGHT inches, on the other hand, is a pain in the...
We did manage to fishtail our way to my parents' house for Christmas dinner, and home again that evening, stuffed with good food and arms full of excellent gifts, and the boys got to go outside and play in the foul stuff, so I suppose it was all ok in the end.
Digression: I was in an forgiving and accepting spirit because Clay and I totally WON at gift-giving, having scored the boys a Wii that they were ENTIRELY NOT EXPECTING. And although I am shamelessly displaying the smallness of my spirit, the Wii gift was made all that much sweeter by the fact that the boys have been bravely bucking up under the taunting of the neighbor boy. He was planning on getting one for Christmas, and took great pleasure in informing the boys that it was a FAMILY gift, and they couldn't touch it. They were so stalwart about the whole deal, so when Christmas dawned and THEY got one and HE didn't...well. Heh. Happier about that than I truly should be.
Plus, I am a bowling QUEEN. I am a bowling PHENOM. And Clay totally cheats at baseball, although I can't figure out how. End digression.
So, the next day dawned sunny and bright (if not warm), affording an opportunity for the hardier among us to go outside and shovel. Tra la. See how well I bear up? That night Clay commented in an off-hand, casual manner, "Hey, I hear it's supposed to snow tomorrow."
I may have glared. I may have refused to believe him. I may have explained to him, patiently, as one might to a small, errant child, that it could NOT snow, because WE were going to the library because I was out of reading material and had stupidly left three books Mom was lending me at her house. I may have refused to hear anymore of this foolish SNOW nonsense.
I may have been wrong.
So far today there have been...I dunno, three or four inches of snow. Possibly several feet. It's hard to tell. The spirit, she is broken. I will not get to the library today, being girlishly unwilling to drive in this stuff. Tre, right now, is out in the snow, playing. One of his gifts this Christmas, from my parents, was a gym membership. He went with Clay for his first workout yesterday, and has been full of manly bluster ever since.
"I'm a little sore, right here," he says, moving his shoulder, "because, you know, of the weights." I assume, then, that what he's doing out there, lying in the snow, is icing his muscles, not playing like a kid.
Inside, Raphael is wandering around, periodically breaking into song. This is a new development, the singing, He's found his voice...or more accurately, he's found the sweet falsetto of some rosy-cheeked, innocent boys' choir member. Every so often, he will burst into an angelic rendition of "Away In a Manger," sounding for all the world like someone with The Real Meaning of Christmas in his heart.
It makes his brothers insane.
"STOP THAT, " snarls Max, who knows counterfeit sweetness when it pierces his eardrum. "STOP SINGING LIKE THAT."
I have forbidden them to quash his singing, because that seem just WRONG, somehow. It bursts forth from his little SOUL. Although, I have to say, when he is holding forth, vocalizing at the top of his lungs the theme from Star Wars, and standing behind my left shoulder, doing permanent damage to my ears, the concept of soul-squashing doesn't sound all that bad.
Max got a pocket knife for Christmas, from Clay's parents. He is completely enthralled by the knife, and all the possible bad uses one could put such a device to. A lot of Max's conversation these days is about what would happen if...[insert phenomenally bad idea]...and then I sternly assure him that such action would cause him to lose his knife. Clay has told him about all the bad ideas HE had, as a boy with a pocket knife, as an instructive sort of thing. I like to imagine that there are a finite number of bad ideas in the world of pocket knives, and each one discussed and eliminated sort of...lessens the pool of bad options.
Then I see the gleam in Max's eye, and I suspect I was wrong.
On the whole, I would say, we have plenty to be grateful for this Christmas season, snow and singing and eyes gleaming with ideas aside.
Then again, perhaps because of the snow and the singing and the eyes that gleam.
Merry Christmas, all. (Hush, I am NOT late. Twelve days. Right up to January 6.)