“Please stop brushing the dog with my good whisk.” And other sentences you thought you’d never say as a mother.
The dogs were in their element. Hurtling round, chasing snowballs and digging as if their tiny wee hairy lives depended on it. One of them glided through the snow with no issues. The other came in covered in big snowy clumps, unimpressed and impatient to get them off. Off right NOW please.
So the whisk? The kids found a video on social media showing a lady brushing her snow-covered dog with a whisk. Imagine my absolute delight to find them using my best whisk on the rear legs of a manky, wet pup. She was less than amused too and even less so when the next day they slathered her with Vaseline to prevent the snow from sticking. I’ve never seen a more miserable-looking creature as three kids struggled (gently) to hold her still while removing what was left of her dignity.
If nothing else, this spectacle made sure I will never forget there is no unconditional love, loyalty and pure devotion like that of a dog. Even if she can roll her eyes like a human. This incident also reminded me one of the weirdest things about being an adult is having a favourite whisk. Favourite whisk and hob ring. I’ve also learned men who shovel snow talk about only snow.
Along with other men from our street, shovelling was done at a Herculean rate and as my feminist side floated away from my physical being, I’ll admit I was happy to let them get on with it. Now, I have NO shame in flaunting the fact I am a dab hand with a scraper. I find the process rather satisfying. I enjoy the cathartic “kerthump” noise as it hits the ground, cutting through the quietness a heavy snow fall brings with it.
Deep snow doesn’t happen too often here so when it does, it’s magical. I find the empty road and the clean snowy gleam soothing even if I know there’s a pandemonium coming to make up for lost time.
The manly thing in the snow
The mister was shovelling paths where the cars were parked. He and the other chaps eyeing up each other’s shovels. Admiring their manly piles. Sympathetic nods shared when the snow plough wheeched past, whipping up a storm on a previously cleared patch. How rude! Did they take the opportunity for a socially distanced chat? No. Not one bit of it. Just virile nodding and silent brotherly understanding.
He was outside from first light making sure we could get to work. Handling the snow shovel like a pro, he made sure the staff and I got to where we needed to be. I’m not sure if it’s a hunter-gatherer thing but I’m very grateful either way.
He shovelled, cleared, swept and helped with stuck cars. The mister’s mammoth shovelling efforts were banked on February 14 when, in place of a Valentine card, I remembered how he single-handedly rescued several motors in minus 6 degrees for me earlier that week. That’s all good with me – as much as I adore the man, I’ve accepted the fact romance isn’t his strong point and I believe carbs might in fact be my soul mate with him coming a close second.
Meanwhile in the world of the offspring, sledging was the sport of the moment. With fervour not felt since Sunday mornings filled with Ski Sunday, they were patiently taking it in turns on the hills and managed brilliantly to socially distance sledge. Imagine that! Coccyx remain intact along with Covid-19 rules integrity. I couldn’t be more impressed and I believe they thoroughly deserve it. A little chink of white, cold, powdery optimism allowing them to make snowmen, compare icicles and wheech downhill on their backsides.
Not a single nag from this mum regards school work or chores, I’m sure even home schooling can fall victim to an occasional snow day? No sledging for me thank you, my favourite winter tradition is going back inside where it’s warm to stand in front of the cupboard eating a temporary snack while trying to decide on a more formal permanent snack.
