Snow Day

I need a Snow Day.  Like a real snow falling from the sky, stacking up on the ground, sled worthy Snow Day.  Badly.  And yes, I capitalized “Snow Day” like it is a recognized national holiday.  Because in the world of education, it is.  In fact, snow days are the currency that fuel the economy of the long dark winter.  With no snow days comes the Great Depression.

Admittedly, I look forward to snow days more than the students I teach.  And, no, it is not because I hate my job, dislike kids, or endorse laziness.  Quite the contrary.   What I do like is unexpectedly sleeping in, waking up to a cup of coffee and leisurely catching up on morning television.  What I do like are the squeals of delight from my son when he realizes that a day of snowmen and sledding are ahead of him.  What I do like is when time stands still, and we are all forced to simply stop, putting those seemingly important tasks aside for the moment.  I like getting paid in my pajamas.

I can endure all of the negative stereotypes of the South in the snow.  The “bread and milk” dash, the quick calls from school boards just for a threat of inclement weather or an arctic blast of cold temperatures, the “mostly rainish” snow day call, the bus won’t start day, the pipe burst day, the electricity is out and we can’t feed the kiddies day, and the flash flood day are all okay with me.  I have no concern for those above the Mason Dixon Line who scoff at our inability to handle an act of God.  I didn’t choose to live in a place where the infrastructure is prepared for the advent of bad weather.  I live in Tennessee.  We know how to handle tailgate parties, country music festivals and blazing summer temps.    I positioned myself strategically in between a part of our country that embraces the cold snowy weather nine months out the year, and a part of the geography where snow is a statistical improbability.  I’m no dummy.

And for all of you sitting in your corner office on a snow day with a business as usual attitude, please leave your negative opinions and comments at the water cooler.  We know you don’t want our jobs.  You just want our vacations.

So, for now, I can hope and I can pray.  I can read the Farmer’s Almanac, analyze the cloud formations, and endure the inaccuracies of our local meteorologists.  I can put my pajamas on backwards, flush ice cubes down the toilet, and dance a jig before bedtime.  I can do it all in the hopes of that one early morning text message with the two words all teachers secretly add to their contracts each year:  SNOW DAY.