Put Yer Hand Clothes On

During the seven years I lived in Georgia, it snowed once.

It was a random Friday in February. The Mister was deployed, the kids and I were out shopping. Moo kept coming over to us, declaring that it was snowing. We’d stop and go over the the window. “No, baby, that’s rain.” She insisted it was snowing.
Finally, Sissy said, “Child, I know snow when I see it, and that ain’t snow!”

Bubba was at a different shop, but when he got done, he joined us, and said, “It’s snowing outside.”
We looked again.
Behold, snow.
Moo shouted, “I told you!”

As we left the shops, I heard a man on his cell phone. He stood under the overhang, somewhat panicked, “No, man, you don’t understand. You gotta come get me. I cannot drive in this.”
I giggled to myself.
It was tiny snow that wasn’t even stickin. Ah, the natives, they never could cope with precipitation.

Driving home, in the snow, in Georgia, was exhilarating. The snow came at the windshield like time warp in a Star Wars movie. The children were thrilled.

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They had to play in it immediately.

I made the wee ones put on pants and boots. Of course, the only boots we had were Sissy’s old rain boots from Indiana, and they were too big. They didn’t understand why I wouldn’t let them play in dresses and bare legs and Crocs. They had no memory of snow.

Sassy flopped down in it, snow angel-style, and declared, “Mama! Snow is cold!” Then she tried to pick it up, but she grabbed her hand with the shock of pain, and shouted, “It’s too cold! I need hand clothes!” That’s right, y’all — HAND CLOTHES!

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I went in to drag out the basket of warm weather gear, hopin we had enough to fit everyone. The truth was, Bubba wore The Mister’s, Moo wore Sassy’s, Sassy wore Sissy’s, Sissy wore mine, and I wore my nephew’s old ones. Everyone had grown, and we’d never purchased new hand clothes.
Moo’s watermelon hat was Sassy’s baby hat. Sassy’s hat was one Auntie Drew had sent “for fun.”

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Moo about froze to death, but that didn’t stop her from playing.

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When we lived in Indiana, she was only a toddler. She would beg and cry to go outside to play snow with the big kids, but despite her snowsuit and her boots and all that, she would freeze. She’d wander over to her brother, crying, reaching for him. He would bring her in, I would strip her down, and within minutes, she’d be standing on the chair, face pressed against the window to the back yard, tiny hands bangin on the glass, beggin and cryin to go back out again. So I’d bundle her back up, take her back out, and the cycle would go on until the bigger kids finally came inside.

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Our older kids were snow-pros, and it’s important to note, that while my son is obviously too cool for snow, he did put on his hand clothes before snow play.

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Within a few hours, the snow disappeared. But it was a most memorable night for all of us.

I want a white Christmas. I’ve been dreaming of a white Christmas for a very long time. According to the forecast, if we get any snow, it would be a Christmas miracle.

About joey

Neurotic Bitch, Mother, Wife, Writer, Word Whore, Foodie and General Go-To-Girl
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