Snow Day Surprise

Day 362

When you’re a kid, nothing brings joy to your heart like the announcement of a snow day.  Sledding.  Hot chocolate.  Movies with hot, buttered popcorn.

In a neighborhood filled with kids, a snow day also means a houseful of friends.  It’s not yet 8:30 am when the first knock on the door announces the arrival of our first friend.  I’m moving slowly and the effort to find mittens and scarves seems like a job better suited for later in the morning so I send the kids to the basement to play. 

There’s squealing and laughing and general mayhem.  It’s pure joy of a found day nestled in the middle of homework and piano lessons.

I. dashes up the stairs to find something but stops short in the front hall.  “Mom!” he yells “There’s a dog on our porch!” 

I don’t doubt him but walk to the door to check. 

A large black and brown dog stands by the door, his nose pressed against the window sidelights.  His friendly eyes beg to be let in to play. 

“Should I let him in?” 

“Why not?” I answer.  Once the volume hits a certain decimal range the ear ringing becomes a non-issue. 

The dog bounds into the house.  Our two dogs (Did I mention we have two golden retrievers?) bark in welcome.  About time we had a play date of our own, they think and wag themselves silly. 

Our focus shifts from finding mittens to finding the dog’s owner.  The kids feel for a collar.  They find one but it contains no contact information. 

“Go play,” I say.  “Let me think for a minute.”  The gaggle of kids and dogs romp around the house. 

I have an idea who of the dog’s owner.  I call out to the kids to bundle up because we’re going on a dog hunt.

The kids forge a trail in the snow down Jolain.  The dog whom they’ve named Snickers hops alongside them.  We knock.  Once.  Twice.  Three times. 

“No one’s home,” I say. 

“So we get to keep him!” the kids cheer. 

“For a little while longer,” I laugh and our parade marches back in our trodden down path towards our house.     

Lost and Found

Day 361

“Have you seen Cameron’s dad?” Chaz asks. 

Maybe, I think.  Since I don’t know what he looks like he may have walked past.

As a Cub Master, Chaz knows lots of dads that I don’t.  He often refers to Ethan’s dad or Zack’s dad.  I nod and try to follow.  I’m sure he feels the same when I start doing a mom roll call.

“Is he missing?”  I ask looking from Chaz to Cameron.  We're standing in a packed high school gymnasium full of kids of all ages and their families.  I understand how easy it might be to turn your head for a second and lose sight of someone in the crowd.  Still, it’s awful when parents go and get themselves lost. 

“Stay with the boys and I’ll make a loop,” Chaz says.  This seems like a good idea since sending me out to look for someone I don’t know doesn’t sound like a promising plan. 

“So,” I start looking at Cameron.  “Lost dad?”  He nods.  “Bummer.” 

He gives me a small smile. 

“Don’t worry,” I continue.  “They always turn up.”  

As I say this, Chaz and Cameron’s dad walk through the high school gym doors.  Lost parent found.  

Unexpected Hero

Day 360

Sometimes it’s nice to be the hero.   

I order seven large pizzas for lunch for F.’s second grade class expecting each child to eat two slices.  Some do but many don’t.  Everyone finishes lunch and I still have one large pizza left over. 

“Take it home,” suggests the teacher.  She knows I have three boys and three bottomless stomachs. 

“How about the custodial staff?  Do you think they’d like pizza?” 

She agrees they would and I box up the remaining pie and head downstairs. 

To get to the custodial office, I cut through the cafeteria.  My timing couldn’t be more perfect.  I’s class enters as I do and he waves hello. 

“You brought me pizza?” his eyes light up in surprise.  We’ve been having a rough few days.  Life is hard when you’re ten and your mom keeps telling you what to do. 

“Would you like pizza?” I ask.  I think of the packed lunch in his hand of sliced oranges and a turkey sandwich. 

“Yeah!” he grins. 

Luckily, along with the pizza box, I also carry a stack of plates.  I pile two large slices and hand them to my child. 

“Lucky!” shouts a friend from the other side of a lunch table.  No, I think.  I’m lucky.  I have this great kid and I happen to walk through the lunchroom during his assigned time with a large cheese pizza.  What are the chances?    

“Hey,” I mock whisper to I. and he steps closer.  “Have a great day, okay?”

My friend and I continue our trek to the custodians to deliver the pizza. 

“You are a hero!” she jokes. 

For parents, our status of cool to drool drops faster than a lead balloon.  

Hero?  Hardly.  But if he wants to believe it for the next five minutes, I'll happily let him.