...none of us, EXCEPT ONE.
From the moment she looked out the window, L was harassing us about playing in the snow. Nothing slows this kid down - not even a nasty, barking cough like she's had all week. Yesterday as her sister lay down across two chairs in the waiting room at the doctor's office, she happily sang and hopped around the room, pausing only for short coughing fits and resuming as soon as she caught her breath. Girl is relentless.
J and I exchange uneasy glances as she asks us to take her outside. Using our Parental Telepathy (standard issue upon first child's birth, upgraded when we had our second) we have the following conversation:
"You gonna take her?"
"Ugh. It's like 8 degrees out."
"I know. Look, I'll take her out later, okay?"
"Sounds good. I'll go with you."
We redirect her toward some food, and then a movie, and then some toys, and then food again, until... finally... we have nothing left. We have to take her.
So J blows up the snow tube Santa brought her for Christmas (GREAT IDEA, SANTA), we bundle ourselves up, and we step outside to the frozen tundra. This is legit booger-freezing weather. J ties a rope to a handle on the snow tube and starts running and pulling her in circles.
After taking a couple of pictures, I start to feel like a jerk just standing there while he runs around hauling L like some kind of pack animal. Plus I'm getting cold. So I figure, hey, the snow is powdery, there's not a lot of it - I'll start shoveling. I can channel some of that feminist rage that's always simmering just below the surface. Be done in no time.
What I had forgotten was that my upper body has roughly the same muscle tone as a pot of overcooked noodles. I started on the small mound the plows had made at the end of our driveway, got through it, and took a breather. It was, to be blunt, pathetic.
But lo! I did not despair! For a guy driving a plow had turned onto our street and cleared our neighbor's driveway. He had finished and was now facing me, watching my weak-ass attempt to shovel and (I can only assume) shaking his head as he chuckled to himself.
He offers to clear our driveway. I gratefully accept, and run inside to scramble for cash (even though he had not asked for any). I give him what I have in my wallet, which is not bad for about 5 minutes' work. J observes all this at a distance, keeping L out of the way while the plow does its work. He looks at me approvingly as I walk toward him from the truck.
"He felt bad for you, huh?"
You know, it's sad, but I am absolutely not above performing my "Aww shucks, you'd help lil' ol' me?" routine to get help with physical stuff like this. I flash my most brilliant smiles, I blink just a smidge more often, and my gestures suddenly become exaggeratedly dainty, as if to emphasize my diminutive stature. I feel like I become a caricature of femininity.
I comfort myself with knowing that, if I did go to the gym on the regular, I'd still be 5'1", and that even my ox of a husband would have happily paid the guy to plow our driveway. It's not necessarily an issue of strength, but convenience.
I have asked for help in situations where I am comfortable - mostly intellectual, indoorsy stuff - and I've asked for help with things like broken cars, or moving heavy things, or shoveling. Trust me when I tell you, my methods vary quite a bit depending on the situation.
Oh well. What's a compromised principle in the face of an effortlessly cleared driveway?
See what happens when I try to write a quick post? DO YOU SEE?
This is why I need a kick in the ass to actually post. Because I do this - veer off Quick Funny Post Street onto Overwrought Introspective Bullshit Lane at the drop of a dime. And then I read it and go "what the hell did I just write?" and delete the whole thing.
But alas, the J-man demands his daily post. WELL HERE IT IS, MISTER.
I've got a glass of wine to finish. Enjoy your weekends, lovelies. I'll probably see you tomorrow, if you still feel like coming back!
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