12:15 p.m.: To end turning-off-TV crisis, I suggest playing outside.
12:40 p.m.: Everyone is bundled, gloves are matched, boots tied.
2 p.m.: Still outside! Snow is beautiful. Best. Blizzard. Ever.
2:22 p.m.: I notice the children’s faces appear to be frozen. I move closer to investigate, only to be struck with a snowball in the face from my firstborn. It slips down my shirt. “Time to go in!” I announce.
2:23 p.m.: What the heck am I supposed to do with eight drippy gloves, four snow-soaked hats, one frozen solid scarf and four frigid pairs of snowpants and coats? I send children upstairs to change. “I think it’s a good day for loungewear,” I tell them. Husband makes coughing sound that sounds an awful lot like a laugh, reminding me of conversation from earlier this week when I made the same statement. That conversation:
Me: “It’s a great day for loungewear.”
Husband to me: “Didn’t you wear those sweatpants Tuesday?”
Me to husband: “Yes.”
Husband to me: “And didn’t you wear yoga pants yesterday?”
Me to husband: “What’s your point?”
Husband: “No point. You look pretty.”
Daughter comes downstairs in frilly skirt, sparkly tights, denim jacket and rhinestone jewelry.
2:27 p.m.: Overly tired children melt down over hot chocolate mug selection and temperature.
2:30 p.m.: Silence as hot chocolate is consumed. Request for T.V. denied. I speculate how to eat a Pop-tart undetected.