So when I told you a few days ago that I love staying home and being lazy lately, the universe heard me and dumped 7 inches of snow in my front yard last night. 7 inches. In Georgia. Where a light dusting on the rooftop is normally a news-worthy event.
And someone woke up at 5:30 this morning, talked to himself enthusiastically for an entire hour, and then finally demanded that I get out of my warm bed and come get him.
Dude knows things, I swear. He did the same thing on Christmas morning. So it’s 8:41 am when the pre-child me would have been sleeping or brewing coffee or buried under a down comforter in bed reading a novel. And what have I done today? We’ve had french toast, face-timed Scott who I’m sad to say is missing the fun as he’s away this week, and we’ve already played in the snow a bit.
Jude had a hard time walking since it was halfway up his shin.
It was early. I was half-awake with no makeup and sweats that had me looking like a hobo. But the mama in me said let’s head outside anyway and take a few photos to know this really happened. Real, live, fluffy snow in Atlanta, y’all.
It’s been a fun day already.
And I’m going to try and ignore all those worries about the power outage possibility (more freezing rain for the next 24 hours, they say). I just watched a pine tree sway a little as I drank my second cup, and I am really really really wishing my husband was in town. Casting those worries aside for now though, and I’ll rest in the possibility of a mommy-baby adventure and know I won’t freeze or starve to death. Even if we have to sleep by the fireplace or eat graham crackers and peanut butter for a day or two. We’ll get by.
And what else do I have to keep me busy? Some Philippa Gregory on my Kindle and a little practice from Saturday’s knitting class.
I guess snow isn’t that bad after all.