Timeline of a blizzard

Thursday: The only news in the world is snowmeggedon. We might get six inches of the Weather Station’s white gold. Or we might THREE FEET!

And I poured the last of the milk into my daughter’s cereal that morning. That’s right: I was going to have to face the supermarket, where the only aisle not bursting with cranky New Englanders pushing carts of beer, bread and milk was the express aisle.

(All I needed was milk, right? So why couldn’t I go on the express aisle? Because I, too, fell victim to the hysteria. Soon I gathered other essentials. Fruit, veggies, brownie mix and Poptarts found their way into the cart.)

Thursday night: School is canceled in anticipation of the Snowpacalypse. Call hub and tell him to bring home wine. Maybe vodka.

5:45 a.m. Friday: The child I had to bribe out of bed with Eggo waffles at 7 a.m. all week appears bedside, sniffling, coughing and wanting to “cuddle” (read: Breathe germs directly into my face for five minutes and then ask for breakfast.)  

6 a.m.: Find myself telling the children, “No, you may not have Poptarts. Those are for the storm.” As though our survival hinges on the “strawberry” stuffed, frosted stale cakes.

No snow.

7:15 a.m.: Last-minute snowblower tips from the hub before he heads to work.

8 a.m.: Children tire of staring out window and begin a what-could-possibly-go-wrong game of plastic sword fighting.

8:03 a.m.: Child crying. Other child evading. No blood. No snow, either.

8:10 a.m.: First request for T.V. Request denied.

8:12 a.m.: Second request for T.V. Request denied.

9 a.m.: It’s snowing! It’s snowing! OMG! This is happening!

9:03 a.m.: Stopped snowing. Children behave like feral monkeys because I’m talking on the phone. I make threatening facial grimaces at them, which they ignore.

9:30: Snow!

9:45: Children share way too much insight in the “Kitchen Cousins” casts’ choice of pink granite countertops. I reluctantly change channel to “Looney Tunes.”

11 a.m.: Hub checks in. “How does it look?”

“Like you should come home.” In the background, one child realizes other child has more chocolate sauce in her milk. Crisis ensues. Can’t imagine why hub decided to stay a little longer.

12:08 p.m.: Contemplate whether to use the snowblower.

12:09: Opt to wait. Surely it will stop soon.

12:10: Turn off the T.V. that no one was watching any way. Crisis ensues. Our survival looks bleak.

Check back soon for an update.

Timeline of a blizzard, part 2

Timeline of a blizzard, part 3

Timeline of a blizzard, part 4 

Timeline of a blizzard, final entry