I was standing to my waist in snow.
Like a stubborn mule or a robot on autopilot I tried to cross the field with my soon three-year-old on our way to pre-school. “Everybody” crosses that field to get to the bus.
It has however fallen a huge amount of snow this winter and the plough car uses the area at the end of the bus stop as pileup for snow. Our way this morning was blocked by a wide barrier of snow, higher than I was tall.
I tried to found my way around this obstacle. And then I don’t mean I took the “long” route on the sidewalks around the block, but around the pile of snow.
It was then I found that the ditch was covered with snow.
“I can’t walk here, mommy” my son said, towering above me on more safe grounds than me.
“That makes two of us” I replied and managed to forge myself up from my ridiculous position.
Once passed, I faced the field. Not a single footprint. No path.
It was Monday morning I recalled. The snowstorm had been this weekend. Who in the heck takes the shortcut to the bus unless it is weekday and you are in a hurry, when you have to walk through close to knee-deep snow? Of course we would be one of the first to cross it.
I don’t mind snow. I love snow. I’m excited to feel the forces of nature.
Yet, I had acted like there was no snow.
A fluffy down jacket, a three year old, a half eaten banana and a bag was just too much. Or too few arms with too little muscles.
I felt stupid and inadequate when we crossed that field, him wailing and me angry.
Sweet and tender moms in aprons with flowers and hands full of freshly baked buns only exist when it’s summer.
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