Please, please make tomorrow a snow day. Please, please, please. Please give my kids a day to sleep in, then read in their PJs. Please give me a day to sleep in and then snuggle with Lilah in bed and read to her in my PJs.
Please let us roll into the kitchen round about 9 AM, looking for something to eat, which we have because I went to the store yesterday and got everything except baking power. Please let the kids spend an hour finishing their Valentines and then two hours making things out of cardboard and duct tape.
After lunch, when there’s enough snow but before the heavy winds, please let us suit up in our snow pants and head out to play. Please let us come back in and drop dripping boots on the floor while I start making hot chocolate. Because I bought whipping cream.
I’m a better mother on a snow day. I don’t have to pack lunches or yell at the kids to get dressed. I don’t have to hurry them anywhere. I want a snow day.
Yet, in every wish for a snow day, there’s a whisper from the girl I once was. She reminds me of the children who are praying not to have a snow day. She points out the kids whose parents couldn’t stock up on food and for whom school is the best place to get a square meal. She speaks of the mothers who are worse parents on a snow day and fathers stuck home when the family would rather they left. She tells me about the children for whom school is an escape, and a snow day means an extra eight hours in a house that is only a step better than hell.
Tomorrow, if I get to sleep in and welcome messy-headed children bearing books into my bed, she’ll be there, too, reminding me that not everyone wants a snow day.