Sam's Snow Day

“I’ll pick Sam up at noon,” the text read. It was from his friend’s mom. It was a Friday morning, yet another blessed snow day for our crew.

Sam was always up for a play date. And it was just after 10, plenty of time for him to get ready. 

“Sam, Mrs. Simpson [names changed] will pick you up in two hours, so you need to get dressed and finish your breakfast before then,” I instructed. “Oh, and she wants you to pack your snow gear so you guys can play in the snow.”

“It snowed?” Sam turned his head to peer out the window.

There was a long pause while I contemplated this question. There were at least four inches on the ground and it was still coming down.

“Oh, my gosh,” Nate said in disbelief of Sam’s ignorance.

“Sam. Yes. You guys have a snow day. Why did you think you were home from school?”

“I just thought I was sick.”

I buried my forehead into the palm of my hand, composed myself, and addressed him again. “Just make sure you’re dressed and ready to go by noon.”

Which seems like a very simple task. But it’s Sam, so it’s not. I recently read a statistic that the energy exerted while getting a kid ready for school in the morning is the equivalent of energy spent at an entire day of work for most people. So with Sam, it’s got to be at least eight days worth of work. 

I say all the time that Sam’s my favorite person in the world unless we have somewhere to be. Which is often. He’s funny and quirky and weird and entertaining. But when it comes to putting his shoes on, brushing his teeth, or getting his lunch from the refrigerator, those tasks can take an eternity. He has exited the house on multiple occasions without his backpack, more concerned with finding Lou to give him a goodbye kiss than he is with having his belongings for the day. When one of our two pet turtles—they live in an aquarium in the third floor playroom—died a few weeks ago, Sam’s response was, “That’ll save me time in the morning, it’s one less person to say goodbye to.” As if he’s ever been concerned about time. He’s a poster child for some sort of diagnosis and as a former teacher, I have no idea what.

Around 11am, Tess decided she wanted to take a bath and since she hates baths and typically avoids them at all costs, I ran with this momentum and took her upstairs to run the water. We poured in some bubbles and added a bath bomb and her new hot pink loofa and she was in heaven, luxuriously swirling herself around in the large Jacuzzi tub, counting the bubbles, and singing to herself.

I trotted down the steps to remind Sam to get dressed. 

“Why?” he protested in his whiniest voice, making “why” four syllables instead of one. “Why do I have to get dressed now? She’s not coming until noon.”

He was sitting on the ground in the living room with Nate, completing a giant floor puzzle of the United States. 

“Fine, you’re right, you can wait. You have forty-five minutes.”

I returned upstairs to supervise Tess’s spa day in the master bathroom. 

Ten minutes later, I called down the steps, careful to reduce my yell to a whisper so I wouldn’t disturb Lou’s nap. 

“Sam!” I hissed. “Get dressed!”

“Can I have a snack?” he called back, the volume of his voice indicated that he wasn’t the least bit concerned about whether or not he woke Lou.

“Yes! Fine.” I returned to Tess, who was in the process of washing her hair. I helped her rinse and finish her bath time routine and was in the process of blow-drying her hair, when my phone buzzed.

“On my way,” the text read. It was Mrs. Simpson. She was five minutes ahead of schedule.

I unplugged the hairdryer, tossed it in a cabinet, and sprinted down the steps.

“Sam!” I yelled with the same amount of panic I’d probably have if the house was burning down. “She’s coming! She’s coming to our house RIGHT NOW!”

I gasped as I turned the corner and laid eyes on Sam. He was perched on the sofa in a Gollum-like squat, reaching his hand into a bag of Cheez-its with the same amount of panic he’d probably have if he was relaxing poolside at an all-inclusive resort.

“Who is?” He deposited another Cheez-it into his mouth. 

“Mrs. Simpson!” I shouted. “And you’re stillnot dressed!”

“I’m having a snack,” he said coolly, as though I’m the idiot for not understanding that snack time is sacred and should not be disturbed. He still hadn’t budged.

I ran to the dining room to look out the window just in time to see the black minivan turn onto our street. 

“SAM! She’s here! She’s actually here!” Our house was burning to the ground, the eaves in the attic crashing through to the second floor and Sam was calmly enjoying a happy hour. “Give me the Cheez-its and go get dressed NOW!”

“Hey!” he protested as I snatched the red bag from his fingers. In addition to his irritation, he seemed genuinely surprised that I was rushing him.

“Uh, Mom.” Nate was keeping watch at the front door. “She’s in the driveway.”

My phone started blowing up from where I had dropped in on the end table. It was Mrs. Simpson. I grabbed it and answered the call. 

“Hey, I’m in the driveway!” Her cheeriness was a nice contrast to my sheer hysteria. 

“I know! Sam’s… it’s just…” I was stammering. “He’s not even dressed yet,” I finally confessed.

Sam was just climbing down from the couch and was beginning his journey up the steps to his room. I should point out that in this time span, a freshly bathed Tess, who’s three years younger than Sam, had already emerged from her room completely dressed without any prompting from me.

“Okay, here’s what I’ll do,” Mrs. Simpson is a nurse, so she’s a good problem-solver under extreme duress, which is what we were experiencing at the moment. “I have to pick up Carolyn, too, so I’ll go grab her first and then I’ll come back for Sam.”

I hung up the phone and screamed up the steps. I had just heard Lou stirring in his crib, so naptime was over anyway.

“Sam! Hurry!”

He returned a few minutes later in his signature Adidas track pants and long-sleeved Sixers t-shirt. I was mentally calculating how far we lived from Carolyn’s house and how much longer we had until Mrs. Simpson returned to fetch Sam.

“Great, Sam!” he thrives on praise, not criticism. “Now let’s pack a bag of your snow gear!”

“Why?” he whined, again dragging out the word into four syllables instead of one. “Why are they making me play in the snow?”

Sam hates to be wet. And cold.

“Because you’re a kid and that’s what kids do,” I said, stuffing some snow pants into a reusable grocery bag. “Put your boots on! Where are your mittens and your hat?”

“Which boots are mine?”

That’s actually a fair question. We have a dozen pair of snow boots, each a different size, most of them hand-me-downs from Tighe’s cousins or the older boys across the street. 

“I don’t know, the ones that fit!” I was on my hands and knees digging through our front hall closet, like a dog digging for a bone. Instead of dirt flinging up behind me, it was gloves, hats, mittens, cleats, shin guards, rain boots, snow boots, baseball gloves, and any other type of outdoor sports accessory you can think of.

Meanwhile Nate had returned to his sentry post at the front door.

“Mom,” he called, more curious than panicked, “she’s back.”

“Sam! Coat!”

I threw the bag of snow gear at his chest and taking a deep breath, shoved him out the front door.

“Thanks, Marge!” I called, forcing a smile. “Let me know when you’re through with him!”

I shut the front door and collapsed in a chair. My heart was racing, as though I’d just completed eight consecutive days of work. Clothes and hats and all kinds of shoes were strewn across the floor of the foyer. I could hear Lou, faintly fussing in his crib.

“Mom, you made a mess,” Nate said dryly, judging instead of helping as he returned to his Legos in the living room.

Back to the grind.