When I was little, one of my dad’s favorite ways to get me out of bed quick in the morning was to look out my window and say, “It snowed last night!” Without fail, even if it was mid-August and I had slept with a fan on to ward off the heat, I would pop out of bed wide awake to see if it was true. (His other favorite way to wake me up was to hold a glass of water over my head and threaten to dump it if I didn’t wake up. Granted, I have never been a morning person, but I strongly believe that these early morning traumas contributed to my great need for therapy later in life.)

Living in the Northwest, our winters have always been wet and mild. I can count on one hand the memories I have of waking up to a white Christmas. On the rare occasions that we got a snowfall heavy enough to allow sledding, every child in the neighborhood would be outside as long as their cold little toes could take it. You had to pack every fun snow activity you could think of into one day, because you never knew if the snow would still be there tomorrow. Every yard would be littered with snow angels and the remnants of a furious snowball fight. Tracks from twenty different sleds led from the homes to the one tiny slope in our neighborhood that could be used as a sledding hill. A proud, dilapidated snowman held a frozen vigil beside every front porch. Snow was magical. Our world shut down completely, as drivers who were unaccustomed to snowy streets all decided to stay home, and schools closed their doors for the day. Everyone was cheerful and full of energy, and neighbors who we hadn’t seen or spoken to for months would be out in their yard calling greetings to the passers by. At the end of the day, I would fall into bed exhausted with red cheeks still burning from the cold and a belly full of hot chocolate. Nothing has ever felt so perfectly satisfying.

When the snow started to fall yesterday, I was so excited. I couldn’t wait to take the girls sledding and teach little Zibbit how to make her first snow angel. But I noticed some other thoughts creeping in that I hadn’t expected. I found myself praying for the snow to please please be melted in time for Babs to go to school on Monday. I mean, not only do I look forward to that little break, but I also pay good money for her to go to class!

Ugh. What a horridly adult outlook.

I was also concerned about driving safely on the slushy streets, and since my mom’s power was out my mind was fervently cataloging all the candles and extra blankets just in case ours went out too. In a way, I felt like the responsible mommy in me was betraying that innocent child inside who wanted nothing more than to run out and catch snowflakes on my tongue. The fluttery anticipation I remember feeling at watching the ground turn white when I was little was overshadowed by the obligation I felt to think ahead and prepare and make sure the kids’ noses were warm enough. The responsibility took away so much of the special magic of our first snowfall this year. As I nervously watched the temperature drop and the streets turn from slush to ice, I thought (not for the first time) that sometimes it really sucks to be a grown-up.