I. Hate. Snow.

I was up pretty late last night (think 2 a.m.), and was just hoping to get moving by nine o'clock so that the morning wouldn't be a total loss. My darling breadwinner worked the night shift, so he snuggled next to me around 6:30 a.m. for a good day's sleep while I finished my nightly snooze.

My wish was granted - I got up before nine o'clock. However, I was awakened by excited, shrieking kids thundering through the house, dashing from window to window. You see, we had our first snowfall today. Yay.

My kids have long known that I. Hate. Snow. Period. Sure, it's pretty to look at. And I must admit that the first flurries of the season make my heart dance. But that's only for about five minutes.

After that, all snow means to me is searching for the other glove, struggling with gloves and snow pants, tying boots, doors left open, wet carpets, extra laundry, frozen hands, ice-packed boot laces, fights over who hit whom in the face with an slush-ball, spilled cocoa, and every mug in the house dirty.

And then they want to do it again all over in a few hours.

I have recently been visiting blogs from moms in Alaska, and they sometimes have snow straight through from October until April. Although I secretly dream about living a simpler, more rugged life, I think the snow would kill me. The past few winters we've only had a handful of days when there was serious snow accumulation, but it's still been too much for me.

I don't know why I should feel this way. As a child, I remember snowy winters when I'd be outside for hours, and coming in with snow caked in cuffs and laces, soaked to the bone with bright red skin. I know I tracked snow into the kitchen, and I'm sure I left wet clothes laying around. I don't remember my family having a hissy fit, and I know I left the door open at least once. Maybe it was because I was an only child?

Either way, the snow tolerance gene was not passed on to me. The milestone to which I most look forward is not the first step, or the first word, or potty training. No, my favorite age is when they can put on their own d**n snowsuit and gloves, not leave icy puddles on the floor, and remember to put their wet stuff in the dryer.

AND turn it on.