Looking Beyond Disappointment

The meteorologists had forecast up to four inches of snow for our area.

In south Louisiana where snow is almost as rare as an active volcanic lava, our entire household grew excited. All day Tuesday, the children and I watched and waited, some of us less patiently than others.  Breakfast started with repeated prayers for "one hundred inches," no matter how impossibly Arctic this mother said their request was.

We played games, read books, incessantly refreshed the radar image, and kept vigil at the french door, leaving nose prints behind as evidence, all in order to pass the time until the fun began.  Grandmama and Granddaddy even personally delivered their "Rosebud" saucer sled in anticipation of the grandkids playing in the snowy goodness to come.

In the end, though, the only result was several hours worth of sleet.  Granted, the icy rain fell heavily for a couple hours, but all it succeeded in doing was coating the concrete with a slick film of danger and trapping us on the farm.

This morning, I expected disappointment and dreaded the "sorry, God said no" conversation about prayer sure to come.

Sure enough, the cinnamon scones weren't even perfuming the air before the topic arose.

"Did it snow?"

I sighed.  "No, honey.  God decided not to give us snow.  He obviously decided we needed ice instead."

Amelia and Wyatt both didn't miss a beat.  "That's okay.  We'll enjoy it anyway"

And we did.

The winter wonderland joy didn't start off too well.  Around the base of the tall oaks, the snow white was an illusion.  My children would run up to it and grab for a heaping mound of snow only to find ice, which no amount of banging on it with sticks or boots could penetrate.  Soon, though, they learned that ice is slippery fun and giggled as they intentionally (and repeatedly) slid and fell.

Then, Emerson and Wyatt discovered the swamp's layer of surface ice could be smashed with a stick.  Although Amelia shrieked unhappily about them ruining the tadpoles' home, I could only shake my head--give boys something to destroy, and they're happy.

The best fun, though, was what they had waited for--the ability to go sledding on Rosebud (named after Clifford the big red dog's sled in the book The Big Red Sled).  Our farm is totally flat land, not a hill in sight, unless you count the two piles of red clay husband and Opa have yet to spread down by the barns.

Snow or no snow, nobody is really going sledding here.  Basically, somebody (i.e., mommy) grabs the rope attached to the sled and gives endless turns dragging three GO FASTER!!! children around the yard.  Sound like fun?  Yeah, I didn't think so either.

With a slushy yard, I just knew I'd fall and break an ankle (which my friend & neighbor actually did today).  So, I found a longer rope, tied it to the back of Thumper, and off we went.

Wyatt and I took turns driving around the hay field, making sled doughnuts in the slush and hibernating hay.  I may have wanted to lock myself in a closet later on in the afternoon, but for that moment in time, we all laughed and grinned silly together at our ingenuity, a true happiness that reached deep inside.

No, there was no snowman.  No, there wasn't a good snowball fight, although this mom is thinking that was a blessing after seeing the tears that resulted from just a few fluffy sleet balls thrown.

My children and I could have spent the past two days miserably disappointed. But thankfully, we were able to make lemonade out of our frozen lemons.

Somehow, that only makes it sweeter.