They closed schools, shut the subways down, the BQE became a ghost tunnel, and we prepared for the blustering, dumping, blizzard they said it would be.
Instead, the storm surged East and North and we had a slushy few inches.
A let-down, in some ways. I expected a wonderland when I woke up. And, for me, I thought how much better a snow day would be if I didn’t have to wake up and be present. If I could read all day in my pajamas, watch a dumb movie on tv.
At least, we thought, Little O could play in the snow, in a way he couldn’t in his infancy last year. We bundled him in his space-suit, his hood an astronaut puff. We stepped out the door, caked snow on his mittens, touched it to his cheek, our voices knocking up a register, as always. Snow! Snow! He sat in it, looked at it, had this way of looking back up at us, glum and unimpressed, wondering when we’d take him in from the cold.
Our usually happy baby spent the rest of the day indoors crying, fussing, unhappily being plopped from one uninteresting activity to the next. The mat, his room, the bag of books, the basket of toys, the slinking dog pull-thing, the ride-on push-car with its piano keys. None of it inspiring, apparently.
Yes, we stayed safe. Yes, all was not lost or destroyed. We are lucky. But I feel his restlessness. So much excitement over the white-stuff. Press conferences and news headlines. Empty supermarket shelves. The possibility that the world we know and everything around it could turn white and drift and slope, shake our footing, shape the ground, contour our lives, and we’d see something we’d never really seen before.
I guess the gray and white days will slog along just the same until spring.