Every year, as soon as school opens in August, Younger starts praying for snow. So, he was thrilled last week when the temperature dropped from seventy to thirty overnight and the sky threatened of snow flurries.
“I would laugh so hard if we didn’t have school tomorrow,” he announced, tugging on the refrigerator door to survey the hidden contents.
“You’re gonna have school tomorrow,” I assured him.
My husband added, “The roads are too warm for snow to stick.”
“And precipitation isn’t even in the forecast after midnight,” I tacked on for good measure.
Disgusted with the two of us, he pulled his head out of the refrigerator, shutting the door with a thud. “Well, I think it will snow. And you know what you are? Snow pessimists. That’s what you are.” Then he stomped from the room, muttering, “Snow pessimists.”
Well, I mean, I’ve been called some names in my lifetime, but he might as well have called me an adult.
And that just hurts.