In case you didn’t hear about the huge dumping of snow on the East Coast of America, let me be the first to tell you that over the weekend, God vomited a huge snow storm on the East Coast of America. Philadelphia got a lovely 23 inches of snow and this past storm was the second largest storm…ever.

I know that people from places like Chicago and Boston would look at those totals and be like, “Yeah? It snowed like that yesterday morning” but here in NJ et al. we aren’t so used to that kind of winter dumping.

All this snow made me think of growing up with snow storms.

I hated the snow when I was little. Sure, it was very pretty to look at and I really did want to go out and play in it. But then, when I got outside and felt how cold is really was outside…I was knocking on the glass sliding door to come back inside.

Don’t get me wrong, my mother packet me up nice and tight. I had two pairs of gloves, three pairs of pants, seven shirts, some long johns, and a small portable space heater (ok, I didn’t have that, but I wanted one).

But as soon as I got outside and got hit by that wet, soggy, snowball…I was ready to come back in.

My mother would see me outside with the tears running down my face, the snot frozen to my lip, and she would shake her head and open the door. I had to un-layer right by the door and put the soggy clothes right in the washer. She would tell me and I quote, “Well, I told you it was cold outside. Why did you want to go outside for anyway, dummy?”

I didn’t go outside to play in the snow. I went outside because I wanted what came after I came back in from the snow. I wanted that warm cup of hot chocolate. I wanted those extra helping hands to hugs my frozen body and warm me up. I wanted to sit on the couch with my blanket and Ernie pillow and be happy.

It was those small, stolen moments I felt the most loved and cared for. If it meant I had to suffer a bit outside and be pummeled with snow balls…I was willing to take it.

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