Earlier last week, I saw on the forecast that we might get some snow on Christmas Day. I thought that sounded fun, even though I’m not a huge fan of snow. I mean, it’s lovely if you can sit inside where it’s warm and cozy, and watch the snow falling outside of your window. I just hate driving in it.
Then when Christmas Day rolled around, the news was making it sound like the snow was coming any second, and we’d be under 6 to 10 inches of snow. SNOOOOOWWW!!!! (You know, local news. Very doomsday scenario.) We shrugged it off. It started snowing around 9 p.m. on Christmas night. It wasn’t much, and since it had been raining earlier, we weren’t sure how much would stick.
My dad has never had a white Christmas in his 74 years on this earth, so we told him this was his year. Five minutes before midnight, he went outside to catch a few flakes, just so he could say that he’d touched Christmas snow. Then we went to bed.
We woke up the next day to…. SNOW!! Like, a surprising amount, considering these branches were bare when we went to bed the previous night.
Yeah. That’s a lot of snow.
I expected Catie to freak out and hate it, based on her reaction to our much smaller snow earlier this month, in which she slipped and fell, then cried, “I’m cold and wet and I need new paaaaants!!!” But she surprised me yet again, because she loved it.
She takes after her Daddy after all. They both seem relatively immune to cold temperatures. I don’t get it at all. I couldn’t wait to get back inside in my lovely central heating.
But there’s some of me in her too, because after a while, she came inside and said, “I’m done. I want to take a shower now.” I totally get what she means.
But it sure was fun while it lasted.