So.many.snow.days.

When I was a kid, snow would get forecasted; it'd just never fall.

I can't tell you how many times I went to bed, dreaming of a day off from my South Carolina school, only to wake up to roads as dry as that patch of skin behind my right ear.

Since my boys started school, however, this hasn't been the case. We're not only getting the forecasted snow; we're getting, like, six inches more than was expected. Snow's been falling like the dollars I'm spending to send them to a school the weather won't let them attend.

{INSERT ANGRY FACE EMOJI}

I don't mind snow days when I don't have anything to do. But on those days that I do - say, a presentation to prepare for a national conference coming up next week or, more immediately, a lecture to present in Athens tonite - I EXPECT TO GET MY TUITION MONEY'S WORTH.

This - plus that run of several ice-induced accidents I had in the years before I met Jeremy - is how I came to hate snow.

My boys, however, love it.

When they got their first glimpse of the four or so inches that had fallen overnite, they immediately ran to my room to tell me all about it: "Mama, I've got good news."

"Good?" I thought. "Says who?"

Sure enough, though, the weatherman got this one right. The time I'd planned to spend researching "What's So Great About the Golden Age?" suddenly became time to spend chasing my babies through the snow.

We didn't stay out for long - it's FREEZING out there, and no matter how many layers we were wearing, the frigid, 15 degree air made things unbearable - but the boys threw a few snowballs, played on the Clubhouse, and walked up and down Haywood Drive. Then, their Nan and Pop came to collect them for the afternoon, so that I could get to Athens, a trip which later up got cancelled (see sentence about "ice-induced accidents" as my angst-riddled rationale for backing out).

I'm sure tomorrow will bring more of the same.

Oh, snow.