If you hadn’t heard in the news, Denver got hit with a massive snow storm on Friday.  Enough to cancel school.  (Yet, surprisingly, not enough to cancel Miss P’s dance class.  Ah, the dedication of dancers!)  So, yeah.  Snow day(s).  I don’t handle them so well.  Cabin fever set in in about six hours or so, and after we’d hit our max of cartoons, I began to unravel just a little bit.   We ventured outside in a foot of snow and the kids retreated to the plastic playhouse to eat their weight in possibly-dirty snow while I shoveled a walkway for the delicate preschooler to traipse through.  Mr. B and I made some weak snowballs to throw at Daddy who stared at us through the window while on his conference calls, wishing he could join us.  Undressing to come inside was a 20-minute experience, leaving our stairs a wet sloppy mess.  The only bright side of the day was watching Mr B. eat our homemade snow in all it’s sugary glory.  Dinner was thrown together with whatever we had left in the fridge and freezer.  Miss P.  opted to avoid eating dinner for the third night in a row, leaving her melting down while we ate dessert.  Cue Mommy’s second glass of wine.  Going to bed on Friday night, I wasn’t sure I could endure another day of this.  I’d lost my mojo.  Or snowjo.  Whatever.

Saturday?  Pretty much forecasted to be about the same, and Jon didn’t want to chance wiping out on the drive to the mountains for ski school, so we actually had the boys home on a Saturday.  I have to stand up and give an ovation to the snow plows of Denver.  They did an ah-maz-ing job clearing the snow by Saturday morning.  Even though our yard was covered in almost two feet of powder, the roads around our house were as clear as a summer day.  We loaded up the kids and took them sledding to our favorite spot, Ruby Hill.  It was pretty fun, but tiring.  Have you ever repeatedly pulled a 30lb two-year old back up a steep hill in two feet of snow?  My lungs were burning.  And I’ve also come to the realization that I’m a terrible sledder.  Sure, my five-year old can do it without a problem.  Me?  I seem to wipe out Every. Single. Run.  Usually with the two-year old in my lap, taking a face full of snow at every wipeout.  So by the end of the morning, no one wants to ride with Mommy.  And who can blame them?  Daddy is by far superior at this.

I do think that trip brought me back to reality though, that we weren’t going to be holed up for days on end like The Shining.  There were cookies to be baked, games to be played, and in the end, it was a delightful day.