It starts out innocently enough, one small flake followed by another. The snow falls in rhythmic, almost hypnotizing patterns from the sky, slowly at first, and then increasing in its intensity. The first flakes melt instantly on whatever they touch, and the only reminder of their existence is the drop of water. It doesn’t take long, though, before the dirty ground disappears and the world is white.

My husband groans as he watches the weather report on the evening news. The kids are excited as they run to the windows with visions of a snow day in their minds. The streetlight illuminates the spectacle of winter, and slowly, the neighborhood is transformed from January drudgery into a dreamy world of white covered everything. Pushing the thoughts of having to shovel to the back of my mind, I stop to admire the beauty of winter. I’m actually thinking how clean everything looks.

I think of Minerva Louise, a silly children’s book about a naïve chicken who sees the world through innocent eyes. She looks out of the barn one wintery morning and envies the snow hat that everyone is wearing. From the light post to the barn, she admires everything’s snow hat. I notice that everything has a snow hat in my yard too and each has its own individual style. The birdhouse has a snappy 3-peaked hat of white. The fence has perfectly repeated hats of snow on every post. Even the BBQ grill is decked out in its wintery finest. I secretly thank Minerva Louise for pointing out this perspective to me.

Hours pass and I notice the skylights are covered. The angry whirring of snow blowers has started as their owners are dismissing the layer of white from their passages. They are robotic in their quest—must remove snow. Nobody is going anywhere yet, but like dandelions in the spring, it has been dictated to us to remove the beauty. Clean up the clean. Oh, I wish it could remain undisturbed at least for a little while. The world is cozy, blanketed in a momentary silence as the neighbor moves to the other side of his drive.

We go to bed as it is still snowing, each with the next day’s scenario playing in our minds. Joe sets his alarm extra early for he will be in charge of snow removal. He anticipates the snarled drive to work and the multitude of faux sick calls in to work. I’m hoping tomorrow is one of the few days Em has the activity bus in to school so that I don’t have to slide her there myself--forget that the kid will be waist deep in snow at the bus stop. The cats have resigned themselves to yet another day in the house, and tuck their noses into their tails for more sleep. The kids, well, they are still holding out that the world (and the school) will be shut down.

The dream of dreams—a snow day. What kid doesn’t snug into bed anticipating the early morning phone call from a neighbor or the chance that your school will be mentioned in the long list of school closings on the radio? There is nothing as surprisingly wonderful as a snow day. The only thing that comes close is putting on last year’s coat, reaching in your pocket and finding a dollar bill. It’s like winning a mini-lottery. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, your world is changed! Isn’t it glorious?! What luck! What joy! Such freedom! You can probably count the times on one hand that you’ve actually had a snow day, but the joy is immeasurable!

As adults, we don’t get snow days. Our job, our paycheck, determines that we show up to work every day. We can’t indulge in the possibility that we can be stopped by those tiny frozen flakes. We are delayed, but not stopped. The sad truth of becoming an adult is that we lose our hope for snow days. Instead, we dread the never-ending onslaught of whiteness and the mess it creates in our routine; our cars are dirtied by road salt, driveways have to be cleared for our assault on the day, kids have to be shuttled to the day care. It becomes a hassle, a pain, an annoyance. At what age does our mindset shift? Is that the day we are officially adults? I’m glad that I don’t remember the day when I looked out the window and dreaded what I saw.

I wake to find the white deeper than had been expected. There are a few remaining flurries tickling the deep belly of snow on the lawn. The plows haven’t even graced our streets yet. The neighbor, an early soldier, readies his snow blowing weapon to battle the driveway. The kids’ alarms are singing them awake as I am heading to the coffee maker. I’m standing there sleepily watching the machine brew when the phone rings. I smile to myself knowingly. Snow day.