A Hijacking, of Sorts

The peaceful Monday morning ritual is hijacked by snow. No school. My youngest awakens midway through my morning readings, thumps down the stairs to stare out the French door windows.

Is there a delay? Or is it canceled?

I think about toying with him a bit, telling a white lie and then reeling him in. But we have enough white today, so I just tell him flat out and his brother spills down the stairs on top of him, having heard the news through his bedroom door.

He is smiling.

I am too.

The dogs are trundled with me on the couch, having tainted that clean blanket of white with their paw prints (and other stuff) early. It’s hard to get warm after wind and blowing snow, so they crawl up against me as close as they can get—burrow under the fleece throws littered across the couch.

The boys need feeding and I resign myself to it—that what usually takes me an hour will take two with them in tow. I’m not complaining, just being realistic when I make a suggestion—tongue in cheek.

Why don’t you guys make me a big breakfast for a change?

Then a miracle happens. They do.

Teddy makes the bacon and sausage, Jeffrey scrambles some eggs. My coffee is already poured and I am seated at the table before I can say, “What-how?”

I am tickled and amazed and am only stopped from passing out by the knowledge that it is the feeling of good fortune at a day off that fills them with such good will.

Isn’t it?

Jeffrey hovers over my dining experience.

How are those eggs? He asks.

Why, they’re just perfect, honey, I say, flabbergasted.

He leans down and kisses me on the cheek and I feel like a princess in my snowflake pajamas—I raise my pinky as I sip my coffee.

They join me for the remnants of the feast and we dine on food and the surprise of a leisurely morning. I could get used to this.

The white stuff calls, despite wind chill factor in the teens and blowing gusts of snow. We dress Penny in one of Lucy’s old sweaters and Jeffrey fastens the infamous “pot holder” around Lucy’s midsection. We are set to go.

It’s a fast trot down to the bridge. Mr. and Mrs. Duck are enjoying a leisurely morning too. 

Until Penny arrives on the scene, that is. 

A red-tailed hawk swoops overhead, disappearing into the trees just over the railroad tracks. A train hums in the distance and rattles closer until the noise envelopes us and passes by in a flash. The old coal cars are painted in graffiti, the boxy things whisper stories of days gone by.

Penny loves the snow. 

She frolics and plays, chases snowballs. But Lucy Mae is freezing. Jeffrey picks her up to carry her home. 

The snow whirls around us and we run, making tracks through the pristine, singing heartsongs about hot chocolate and warm fleece throws. 

The peaceful Monday morning ritual was hijacked today. And I’m so glad.