Mornings like this never happen

This morning fresh snow made our trees doilies, covering up ashy past-the-expiration January.

This morning I did not hurry my son. Neither of us blamed the other for probably ending up late. No one got irritated because he played Legos instead of emptying the dishwasher, or because I forgot the five more minutes of playing Legos warning and THANKS A LOT MOM now we’re going to be late again. We never end up late.

I didn’t ask over and over if he brushed his teeth, and he didn’t yell I ALREADY SAID YES THREE TIMES or complain about the injustice of having to retrieve his own socks from the clean laundry basket. I didn’t punish myself for not having more self-sufficient children, nor question myself over whether preparing his breakfast served as an act of love, or as an act of creating a future coddled man-infant.

This morning felt like when I find the perfectly-sized Tupperware and matching lid–clean and dry–without rifling through mismatches, and without anxiety over whether the container was once washed in the dishwasher and now leaches BPA or BPA replacement which can affect future gonads. Or something. Mornings like this never happen.

I made a list for Nine, and told him to yell out the garage door if he needed me while I shoveled the driveway.

Cereal for breakfast

Clear your bowl

Put away the clean silverware

Get dressed (ALL CLEAN CLOTHES)

Brush your teeth

Pack your backpack (folder, lunch, shoes)

Put on snow clothes

The snow moved easily and quickly with the snow pusher, and I gained the satisfaction that comes with clearing the driveway entirely before anyone backs out the car. In snow country you have a narrow window to clear your driveway before tire tracks make the job a giant pain in the snowbibs.

Nine peeked out of the front door, ready to go. I asked him to tell me the time. His hat with the ear-flaps ducked back inside and reported back with 7:59! Ready to go 15 minutes early. I asked him if he wanted to play in the snow or help me finish shoveling. He made the burning bush his snow fort, and traced a line with a fallen branch like in The Snowy Day.

My driveway cleared quickly and with minimum effort, without sweat or pulling any back muscles. That never happens. We cut across the church lawn making the first footprints with our boots. It’s possible that we smiled the entire way to school, and welcomed conversation with crossing guard Karen without any KAREN SAID HOW ARE YOU prompts. I watched him charge across the playground.

This afternoon I got to see this in reverse from my bedroom window, my boy galloping back across the church lawn, kicking up snow, maraschino cherry cheeks beaming. Snowpants days, you guys. They don’t last. I had hot chocolate ready, cooled down and awaiting the plop of marshmallows. On a school day. Yes, I did.

Mornings like this never happen. Like finding that matching clean perfectly-sized Tupperware on the first try. Like getting the snow cleared on a weekday without needing to use the car first.

The day this nine year old turned four, I pulled him all around the neighborhood on the sled in the dark while falling snow glittered all around us. I remember that birthday night. I’ll remember this school day morning, too.

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Listen To Your Mother: Madison audition time is here!! Mothers and mother figures alike have a way of saying things that we seem to want to ignore, but somehow remember just when we need them. What stories stick with you?

You don’t have to be a mother to audition, you don’t have to be a writer or a performer. Yes, men are welcome, too! Find more details here, and mark your calendar for the 7th annual LTYM: Madison Mother’s Day Sunday, May 8th at 3pm at The Barrymore.