Even on snow days, tempers heat up

Posted in Mom Stuff
by Lorain County Moms

By Aisha Sultan, St. Louis Post-Dispatch

In our household, the year’s first snow day always starts as a no-no-no day.

As in, “Oh, no. Who’s going to call in to work to stay home with the kids?”

“No, you cannot play in the snow at 7 a.m.”

And “No, you are not wearing that outside.”

Unfortunately, the nos have been known to escalate to full-blown warfare. Between the alleged grownups.

I lack childhood experience with snow days. We had inclement weather days in Texas, but who plays outside in a hurricane? Well, once we did in the early stages of a flash flood, but regardless, it’s not a day with sleds and hot chocolate.

Like other warm-climate transplants, I suffer from cold-weather anxiety. Below-freezing temperatures are so … intimidating. My husband, who spent his early years in New York and the past three decades in St. Louis, lacks this healthy fear of the Arctic blast. In fact, he seems to take a very laid-back approach to it. Too laid back.

When it comes to the children’s exposure to the elements, I insist on layers for insulation, Vaseline to prevent wind burn and sunscreen to prevent sunburn.

But where I see potentially blue fingers and pneumonia, my dear spouse apparently sees sled races and snow angels.

I see the potential for traumatic brain injury, he sees snow as fluffy white cushions laid protectively on the ground.

A mother’s anxiety is wired differently than a father’s. Brain scans have shown that when females worry, it lights up greater parts of our gray matter. We can worry more intensely and more thoroughly than most men.

But brain chemistry, aside, do fathers ever consider the potential of bodily injury to their offspring?

This season’s first snow day prompted my usual warnings about avoiding long periods of time outside — 10 minutes out, 2 minutes in. The procedures were reviewed. There appeared to be agreement. And, when I heard the shovel scraping against the driveway, I was warmed by the kindness of the soon-to-be-assailed spouse.

Then I noticed that the first-grader was missing. Apparently, she had also been handed a small shovel (after repeatedly asking, I’m told). In 14 degrees. For nearly 20 minutes.

I started hollering outside the garage door: “Get inside! Can you feel your fingers?”

This is a flit of a girl, skinny as a rail, lacking any internal insulation — protected only by the coat, boots, scarf, mittens and hat.

That’s when things got a little heated inside.

“SO irresponsible. She could have lost a toe!”

“You don’t have to yell!”

Slam.

On my way to work, I immediately called my free therapist — whichever of my three sisters was available. When ranting to a sister had not sufficiently cooled me off, I called in my trump card: my mother, from whom I inherited this cold-aversion gene. (When she came to visit one winter after the babies were born, she ratcheted up the heat to such tropical levels that we started sweating in the family room). She was at work, so I had to share my outrage with Dad.

My father’s reaction: “No one is going to want to listen to you when you use that high-pitched voice. Calm down.”

Good God. I was forced to wait until my mother called back to get any validation.

Her much more reasonable reaction: “Did she catch a cold?”