Jemma woke up while they were out, and I scooped her up and brought her to the window. "Snow . . . " she breathed quietly as she surveyed the front yard, the trees, the neighbor's houses. She looked down at the bushes that light up each night with our Christmas lights. "There's snow even on the Christmas lights," she said. I nodded. She made a scrunched-up little face. "That's okay; we can wash them off." She nodded. I nodded. Then we ate oatmeal and went out to play in the snow.
Jemma has historically not been very "into" the snow. Last year, every time we'd bundle her up and plop her out there in her head-to-toe pink bunting, she'd stand there, immobile, and look at us like, what is this? What am I supposed to do? It's cold. Bring me back inside.
Yesterday was a whole different story. She loved it. She romped and ran and laid down to make snow angels. She hopped in the sled and instructed me to pull her up and down the driveway: "No, faster, momma!" She requested me to pull her around the block, which I did, and then she told me to sit down so she could pull me. I sat in the sled, she strained with all her might with the rope in her hands, and I didn't budge. "You're too heavy. My turn again."
It's a winter wonderland still today, with big snowflakes drifting down and the house smelling like the toffee I made for tonight's party. I spent the morning working out at a hysterical Rock n Roll Kickboxing class, grabbing coffee with a friend, working on an article, finishing up our Disney reservations, and tackling a fair amount of Christmas shopping. I addressed Christmas cards this morning, snuggled on the couch with Annie while we watched Rudolph. I'm in the holiday spirit, and right now, I even like the snow.
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