“Are you ready for the kids to go back to school?” the cashier asks me. I know she’s just doing her job, making small talk, but as my three kids swarm around the cart, two of them arguing about god-knows-what-this-time, I reply “Yes!” with enough enthusiasm that it embarrasses me.
You see, there has been a much larger winter storm around here than we normally get, and the kids have been out of school for an entire week. It goes like this:
It’s President’s Day, and the kids are out of school! Yay! I still need to try to get some work done, but I’ll at least be able to snuggle with them on the couch while I write, and then take them out to play in the snow later.
Neat, the kids have another day off! I will cherish this one just as much as I did yesterday! After all, the school will surely not be closed for a third day in a row. Who wants to play Life? And build a snowman?
Okay, I’ve seriously got to get some work done. Working from home is awesome, except that nobody seems to realize you actually have to work. I’ve relented to far too much video game time already, and they are still bored. I knew when I became a parent that it was my job to keep them clothed and fed, but why is it my job to keep them constantly entertained? Somehow, they’ve decided it’s too cold to play in the snow all of a sudden.
We get the automated call that school is out again tomorrow. I groan audibly, not even bothering to hide it from the kids.
As soon as breakfast is over, the girls are whining (again) about how bored they are. I respond by shipping them off to their room. I have a paper and a presentation to do that I’ve been trying to get done all week. Fortunately, the girls share a room and LOVE to build forts. I don’t care if they use every single blanket they own (which they do, and it’s a considerable amount) and build a castle out of it, as long as I get this done! My stepson has never been under the illusion that I’m cool, so he’s perfectly content to spend some time alone in his room. By 2 pm, both my paper and my presentation are completed. We celebrate with a trip to the library.
“You probably have school tomorrow,” I tell the kids on the way home from the library. “It’s already four and they haven’t said they’re closed yet.” They whine and moan, but I’m not really sure how I feel.
At seven, my phone rings. I hit the speaker button so the kids can hear the robot lady’s voice say, “There will be no school tomorrow.” They jump of the couch, shouting and dancing. I smile a little.
I take the day off. We spend the morning watching TV and playing board games. When the girls leave to go to their dad’s for the weekend, the house feels so empty I don’t know what to do with myself. I sprinkle some salt on the sidewalk and wish for more snow.
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