One of the oh-so-yummy parts about mama-hood is reliving some of the blissful moments of my childhood through creating memories for my own brood. And just as special is reliving the moments that I never even lived. Snow is a case in point. I grew up in Florida, in a place where you can be guaranteed to never have a white puffy flake land on your tongue from the SKY! I never plopped down into a cushion of snow until I became a grown woman and moved away.
Every year or so we went to visit my cousins who were raised in the Shenandoah Valley, and you know what? It never snowed while we were there for as far back as I can remember. A few times when we arrived, it had just snowed. There were only little piles of it pushed into road side gutters, quickly melting and sooty. Still, I would hustle over and scoop up a few ounces in my cupped hands like manna from heaven, and then of course, throw it at my sister. SNOWBALL FIGHT!
So, I am not one bit embarrassed to report that after I delivered my third child, and less than two months later moved to the Mid-Atlantic, on the occasion of a very faint snow spell in November, I sprinted out with my kids and attempted to make a snow angel in our front yard. I couldn’t understand why all the neighbors were not out doing whimsical snow fairy dances around their young’uns. Sigh. They obviously did not grow up in the ‘Sunshine State.’
And the stinkiest thing about growing up in perpetual sunshine is that I have no tolerance for the cold. Now that I live in an oasis of four seasons, I have to start layering in early October and I typically can’t completely shed a sweater until early June. Even so, I love to plaster my nose to the window and watch my babies frolic in shaved ice.
I love to make hot chocolate and piping hot casseroles and call them in for breaks, then shoo them back out, dutifully layered, as only a Florida mom can manage.
When I do venture out, I mange to pry my gloves off of my hands and fumble quickly for the shutter button, so as to memorialize all of it, even their bare heads exposed to the frost despite my consternation.
I muster up the courage to venture out with them to find the best hills around town.
I follow them like a Florida golfer caddy, pushing the little roly poly ones along with their sleds up to the tippity-top of the highest hill we can find, then listen to them try to convince me to slide.
I send them off and hear their belly laughter float, down… down… down, as my ruddy nose turns numb, and I can only see them far in the distance. I jump up and down with my flailing arms crossed over my head: Look at Mama. Look up here!! They finally convince me to stumble down and I ricochet painfully all the way over the worn out path, but I still pop up smiling because they are so proud of me.
When snow first falls, it really is beautiful, and it evokes deep, marveling praise to God for rendering such an ever-changing creation. Where there were fallen acorns and multi-colored leaves just a few weeks ago, now there is only the simplicity and surrender to winter, and settling down for the gentle passage.
These are moments that I never lived, yet through raising my children I live them nonetheless. I watch them shifting in their sleep. Their visions of tomorrow are ignited in their ruddy cheeks and I am more alive than ever because of all the hours we have shared, and in my longing and hope for the days that only exist in our imaginations.
Collard Green Muslim 