Last Friday, we got some snow. On Saturday, we got a lot more. Mary woke up, saw the snow on the ground and immediately wanted to go outside. Which meant it was time to bite the bullet and get serious about finding her some snow boots.
I called the kids' consignment store nearby and asked if they had any snow boots in size 11 or 12 toddler (my kid has big feet), for either gender.
"We have size 1," the woman on the other end of the line said. For those of you not familiar, toddler shoe sizes go up to a 13, kid starts at 1, so we're talking boots three sizes too big. I decline politely and decide to head to the Target 20 minutes away in hopes that that store has something left in her size.
The second I got on the road I realized nothing was plowed and that the Target five minutes away was going to take about 20 minutes to reach, so I went there, praying I had missed something the day before. The boot aisle was almost empty. There were, however, tons and tons of toddler boots in size 7 and 8. I grabbed a pair for Anna because for $4, who wanted to chance the ones at home didn't fit. I was almost plowed over by a woman with a kid easily in third grade who was insisting he check out the boots.
"Go, Joey, go!" she urged him, giving me a suspicious look as if I might have the only boots not elfin sized stashed under my coat.
"Mommy, these are all way too small for me," I heard him say as I left.
"Just keep looking!" Well, points for determination, you crazy woman. The snow was falling faster and I gave up, went to the consignment store and bought the huge boots. They're actually really nice, which is good, since Mary will be wearing them until she's my age.
Return home, present children with boots, Mary screams in delight and drags Tim outside. Anna stares at me.
"Do you want to try on your boots, honey?"
"You need them to play in the snow. Don't you want to go play with Daddy and Mary in the snow?"
"No fanks," she said, climbing up on the couch. I should have known. Last year we tried to get her to play in the snow at my parents' and she cried until my mother picked her up. I joined her on the couch and we watched Mary flail around in the falling snow like a Weeble. Anna got into my lap. "I just wanna watch."
That's my girl. Sunday, Mary once again pulled Tim out the front door, determined to make "a snow girl." (Snow girls, I am told, have eyelashes.) Anna once again refused to go outside, preferring to launch a running commentary from the front window. ("I see them! Dey throwin' snowballs!" "Do you want to go out, too?" "No fanks.") Today it was almost 60 degrees out and I thought she would be thrilled. Instead, she got really upset the snow was gone. Now that she couldn't have it, she wanted it.
Yeah, that's my girl.