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.