Last weekend I planned to make holiday cookies with my children. When imagining this, I pictured my children with rosy cheeks and smiles… I pictured myself making baking-related jokes so clever the kids would remember them for the rest of their lives… I saw us measuring and stirring and maybe even singing a Christmas carol or two. Baking with my children would be memorable and part of the rich holiday history that they would someday recreate with their children. This would be my parenting legacy!
And then it fucking snowed.
It snowed like Snow Miser himself came to Minneapolis and screamed “BRING IT BITCHEZ!”
So, I had to go out and move the car because Minneapolis has this crazy plowing schedule that says you can park on the odd side one day and then the even side the next and then your car must levitate over the city to avoid getting a ticket.
I started the car, put it into first, turned the wheel to pull out of my parking space and moved two inches before the wheels began to spin. I got out of the car, stood in the middle of the street and screamed primally before stomping into the house to get the snow shovel. As I entered, my cherubic daughter came down the stairs and said, “Mama are we gonna make cookies?” and I stood there looking like a snowy Sasquatch with a snow shovel and said, “Does it look like I’m ready to make cookies?!” before stomping back out to the car.
I dug and cursed and then yelled to no one in particular, “I HATE MINNESOTA!” Finally, after about 30 minutes, I got the car out of the parking place, turned around and started backing into a spot on the other side of the street and got stuck. I shoveled and screamed that I was moving to Florida and was eventually able to park the car.
When I went back inside, the kids were standing there with their twinkling little eyes and said, “Are you ready to make cookies now?” I sighed and was like, “Fine!”
We went into the kitchen and started measuring and I was snippy and, at one point, my daughter put her hand on my arm and said, “You need to take a couple of deep breaths.” I shot her the evil glare I inherited from my mother and she said, “Just calm down and enjoy making cookies. Can you do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can you try?”
I hate it when my kids are more mature than me.
I took her advice. I breathed. I made cookies. We salvaged the afternoon.
My legacy is permanently damaged though. I blame Snow Miser.