Snow Day

Alex, Spencer & Logan: Digging a tunnel to China.... Jackson, Wyoming. January 2008

This is a throw back: I wrote it a few years ago when we lived in Wyoming...and while I know the chance of having a snow day in Texas is slim, I still sometimes long for one like daylight.  

Winter in Jackson Hole is every ski bum's dream destination. And, I'll be honest, there are moments when I peer through my frosty windows and the world seems to sparkle like it's been dipped in diamonds, it's breathtaking (and not just because it's -32 degrees) However, finding the big five before school in the morning, is only breath taking because by the time you race all over the house searching for lost gloves and ski goggles, you are out of breath from sheer exhaustion, and there's no escaping it, because the kids must be wearing the "big five" so they can go to school. (I shouldn't say that too loudly or the boys will start hiding things on purpose)  The “big five” consists of boots, snow pants, coat, hat, and  gloves. You times that by three and you get the big fifteen, then throw in three pairs of shoes for the kids to change into and you have big eighteen, times that by the number of things that are pairs, like boots, gloves, and shoes and you get the big 27, then add backpacks , homework, science projects, overdue, mutilated library books, lunch, and snacks, (we have two a day in Jackson) and you get the big sixty four. I am not organized enough for the big five, let alone the big sixty four. Some days I want to just put socks on the boys hands and send them out the door, but sadly, then they wouldn't have socks for their feet, and actually I usually only have five socks for six feet anyway. Blast, Foiled again. So sometimes, last February, during yet another snow storm and anticipating finding the big sixty four, I woke to the sound of snow plows outside, and wished they would EVER call a snow day (they haven't in seventeen years, BUCK UP, you are in Wyoming)  Later that day, I wrote in my journal, (and if you're looking for something juicy you're going to be bored stiff...)

Alex & his best buddy Thibauld:  National Elk Refuge sleigh ride, March 2008
**** I believe it was a balmy -24 degrees*****

 
On days like this, when the snow has all fallen from the broken clouds, and settled against the ground to glitter with the rising sun, I want to call off the plows, stop them before they splinter the snow, break apart the good intentions of God, who seems with storms to say, “slow down, stop this frenzied rush” On winter mornings like these, I wonder if He wishes to freeze our mounting need to do more, and in our haphazard pace, forget Him. I wish to call the workers back, “No,” I will say on the phone to the snow plow operators, “leave your keys on the table, turn off your alarms. Don't scatter that crunchy gravel, don't litter with dirt. Pull your shovels up, and let me rest.” And then, I think, I will pull my curtains high, I will lift the blinds, to stare at the picture, untouched. I will let my children rise leisurely, and pull slippers on their feet,and feed them warm chocolate and toast. We will all rest, relax without guilt, because we are snowed in. Trapped in a cozy spot, and protected as we are from the buzzing rush, I know I'd have a moment to think, a second to reconnect with the world, to remember I am a part of the day. 

 I am sure in the frigid, predawn chaos of school day preparation,  this is every mother's fantasy, except of course, the fact remains that being snowed in, also means, having the kids snowed in with you.  That could be fixed.  But in reality, I am happy in unorganized chaos. Give me five screaming toddlers anytime, if I don't have to take one anxious autistic boy to school. Again.

 Today is one of those days when I need a snow day.  And it's September 4. Even in Wyoming, that's asking for a bit much. I need a break. I need to climb back into bed, pull my blanket to my chin, and let everything around me be still. And yet, and yet, I know this is impossible, I know things will continue to be a swirling chaos of elements, with everything coming at me at once, and no hope of soft flakes, and sparkling mornings, because this is the first week of school. School started Tuesday. Today is Thursday. We don't take lightly to change in our family. Remember, having a son with autism means that we don't like change. Any change. Even good change. For instance, I could announce at dinner time, “I know I said I was going to serve brussell sprouts for dinner, but I changed my mind and we are going to have bon bons swimming in a sea of caramel!” And Alex would cry indignantly, “What! bon bons?  Nobody said anything about bon bons! I was planning on brussell sprouts!”  And I would say, “But you hate brussell sprouts!” And Alex would answer, “Yes, but that's what I thought we were having.”  We don't like change. So when a big change comes around, like say, getting a new tooth brush or going from the fourth to the fifth grade, it is grounds for mayhem. Alex is learning. He's getting better. Tuesday and Wednesday went off with some minor grumbling, but today, Thursday, he was done. And thus begins the distraction, cajoling, playing, hoping, dancing, song, tail wagging ritual that is my life, to get him to conform to a ritual he doesn't like. I distract with stories of a dream I had about grizzly bears last night as I try to get him dressed. I move on to a dream I had about living in a sea of ice cream (sure to please anyone right?) as I try to get him to put his clothes back on. Again. By the time we make it to the car, I am a sweaty mess, (oh, and incidentally, I have two other boys to get in the car too.) We take the dog so he can pet him, (hopefully not too hard on the bladder region, because of course taking the dog outside was LOW on the bottom of the totem pole, we are on survival mode people!)  we drop off the brothers at school first, then Alex and I take a long drive, we talk about how hard it is to only have one recess now. We talk about how hard it is to have a girl in your class that always tells you things you already know. Alex says he wants to go back to fourth grade. H says he spent the entire time at P.E. worried because the teacher said, a fire alarm might go off, and he hates fire alarms. He breaks my heart. We go to school anyway. We check in late. We drop off your backpack. We come back to the car to pet the dog (who still hasn't gone to the bathroom) one more time. Then he goes to art. I am proud of him. And I am exhausted.

I need  a snow day.  I am home long enough for Spencer's teacher to call and say, she is worried about Spencer because he ran off after recess and wouldn't come back because someone hurt his feelings. He doesn't like change either, he just internalizes it. He literally got an ulcer at six. Blessedly, no word on Logan, but then again, it's only 9:20.. I hear some people have children that just go to school. They, in fact, look forward to school, they lay out their clothes the night before and breath in the smell of new crayons, before they pack their backpacks with fresh school supplies and skip out the door. My friend Carrie's ultimate punishment to her oldest is to take away reading privileges. I may have to punish by installing reading privileges.



Spencer (trying to see out of foggy glasses) while tubing at Snow King. Feburary 2008

 Today I need a snow day. Today I have to go talk with Alex's class about my favorite topic of all time,  “what is autism”  which I know sounds like fun. And believe me, it is. I wait all year to be able to field questions from kids who are new to Alex, and don't know about the way he is. Of course it's exhilarating being exposed like that.  I always have a good time talking about his quirky behavior, and how you can't catch autism, and how much Alex needs a good friend. Then I can answer a thousand ten year old's questions about why Alex did this or that or the other and what his motivation was. I wish it was a blizzard. I wish I was turning into the school and a glacier wall of ice, hit my car and pushed it into the creek. And I wish I had just gone to the store and bought an Oprah magazine and a case of Hershey chocolate bars that I naturally had to live to conserve my energy until authorities found me, which, of course, would only be after the meeting.  The sky is blue. The sun in shining. Curse. Now all that remains is for me to go find an appropriate “my son has autism meeting” outfit. And of course the perfect shade of lipstick, because nothings says, “Even-though-my-son-may-freak-out-in-class-at-least-I-still-look-good, like some cover girl berry splash lip gloss.” 

 
On days, like today when I want to hide, I know how it feels to need a break. I know how it feels to want to take a rest, to want to disappear in a white out. I understand, the actual joy old Caroline Ingals ("Ma" from the book "Little House on the Prairie") must have felt when at Christmas they had to tie ropes to their house from the barn to make their way in the thick swirling chaos of Illinois storm.  She was just glad she didn't have to cook dinner for Mr. Edwards and the rest of their neighbors. She was secretly sighing that all she had to do was fill Mary and Laura's stockings with a copper penny and maybe a candy stick and then she could sit down in her rocking chair and read, or maybe sew a little. Couldn't feed the chickens. No, no. All locked up in the barn.  Couldn't spin some wool into yarn, (the sheep were hiding out too, and it was too cold to go outside)   She'd had, of course made bread the day before, and there was still some left over rabbit stew, couldn't cook, had to conserve the wood, and the heat for later. She'd better just rock and read in solitude. If they got hungry she could always send pa out to find a bear.  You didn't know how good you had it Caroline (of course, the truth is if I was snowed in with my kids in a one room log cabin, I would go INSANE.  I would have to arrange to have them snowed into the barn with their father –and of course plenty of blankets and supplies, -I'm not cruel, just exhausted,- just sadly, no way into the house. Dang.)
 


The view from our backyard in Jackson. -32 degrees makes the trees sparkle. 2009

Wishing for snow doesn't do me any good. I could, of course let my boys have their way with the Styrofoam peanuts from the package grandma sent (they LOVE to have an indoor blizzard, by shredding the packing peanuts and covering our living room with a fine layer of “snow” Do you see why I struggle with finding the big five?) that way I could claim a freak storm as keeping us inside.   If Russ were here he would say. “Why don't you just take a break?  Why don't you tell them you can't do the meeting today, or let the psychologist just handle it. Why do you need a storm to be able to slow down?” Silly, silly simple man.  “Because,” I would tell him, “it's not permitted. There is too much to do. The guilt would be overwhelming.” Just take a break? Not blame it on anything?  Just stop?  Those words don't compute.  But maybe I could use the snow cone slushy maker with the lid off. Blast, I don't have enough ice. Or, maybe, if I could somehow get a hold of the Christmas tree flogging machine, from the gardening store down the road, I could cause a diversion, and NOT have to go the the autism meeting in thirty minutes. Then again, I guess they don't really have that out on September 4. Blast. Nobody wants to celebrate the holidays these days. I guess I 'd better go find my autism unveiling outfit. Something smart and sassy, something that says, “Yes, we have autism in our family, but we are still fashion conscious.”

 I'll pray for hail all the way there. Hail the size of baseballs. That way I could get knocked unconscious on the way into the school. Can't answer any questions with a concussion.

 This plan is so much better than Russell's.

 

Mother's Day 2008 (Anyone want to BBQ?)