Monday night fifteen Ballard writers gathered at the Copper Gate to socialize and discuss ways to collaborate in marketing efforts and exposure. The threat of snow loomed all day, all weekend in fact, causing me to furtively glance out the window every ten minutes.
“I hope it snows a ton,” an obviously childless man said.
“Ugh!” Alison, Jennifer, and I groaned in unison. “Then the kids will be home.”
“I thought you loved snow days,” Alison said to me. “I remember reading your piece last year about buying two pounds of bacon, watching a bunch of kids and giving in to the whole thing.”
“Oh yeah,” I smiled. “That was fun.”
Fond memories of the kids and I sledding, drinking cocoa, and making snowmen slipped me into a parental amnesiac state. You know the one where your nostalgia causes you to only remember the good things (such as the cooing baby) and forget all the horrors (such as birth, changing diapers, and two years of sleepless nights). I should know that whenever I recall an outing with my kids as being “Really fun,” I’m not remembering it in full detail.
My first thought when I heard school was canceled on Wednesday was, “Thank God I thought ahead and hired a sitter today.” But Alison’s words proved to be a potent drug once again causing me to email my clients to see if they wanted to reschedule their appointments. I canceled my sitter, but with a moment of clarity asked for a guaranteed rain check for Thursday in case “you know, I start fantasizing about eating, or worse, maiming my children.”
“Hey guys,” I called to my kids. “I don’t have to work today after all. Who wants bacon?”
Just like last year, we ate a pound of bacon, drank hot cocoa and sledded for two hours. But this time, it sort of sucked. I tried to succumb to the snow day, but every time I felt wintery wonderful, my son ruined it. Before we left the house, he whined about his snow pants not fitting. While sledding, he complained that he didn’t get a full ride down the hill because his sister (another kid, a car, a tree, you name it) screwed it up for him. While his sister laughed and frolicked in the snow, he complained about being cold and then sulked under a tree for ten minutes. During his sulking we ran into a neighbor who said, “Don’t you have two children?”
“Yeah, see that red dot under the tree?” I said pointing a block and a half away. “That’s my son.”
“Aren’t you going to go get him?”
“No, I find it’s best to leave him alone when he’s pouting. Otherwise it just exacerbates the whole thing.”
The neighbor, who has toddlers, looked dubious, but not horrified. I quit talking before that changed.
My son returned and we threw snowballs at trees and then each other, which of course upset him. I called it quits and lured the kids back inside with the promise of cocoa. Just as I was adding the chocolate to the milk my son said, “You always make it runny so I want lifesavers instead.”
I wanted to tell him he was an ungrateful shit, but I controlled myself and instead said, “You know, when you ask for things and I do them for you, it’s best to say thank you rather than criticize it.”
“All I was saying was can I have a…” he started.
“And when you constantly try to negotiate or argue with me about sweets it makes me want to throw every piece of candy, all of the cookies, and anything else that has sugar in it away and never give them to you again. I ….I need a minute.”
I ran downstairs to my new savior—a six-foot punching bag. I bought it as a Christmas gift for the kids, but we all know who uses it the most. After a few rounds, complete with punching gloves, I felt better.
I returned to the kitchen to find my kids peacefully making snowflakes for our window. We drank cocoa. We adorned the house with “art.” We even smiled and laughed. And an hour later, I was back down with the punching bag. And so went the incredibly long day.
The evening continued in the same vein, culminating with us reading and snuggling in my bed. My hugs and kisses were followed by, “I’m going downstairs for some Mom time. Don’t call for me.”
I grabbed a glass of wine and a pound of Brie and put Season 4 of “Weeds” in the DVD player. I reclined on the couch, comforted by the knowledge that I was a better mother than Nancy Botwin. “At least I’m not banging a drug lord, endangering all of our lives, and selling drugs,” I muttered to myself.
I wanted reassurance from real people, preferably non-slutty drug dealers, so I called a few friends to hear if they too had considered selling their children today. All of them had, all of them were also in a prone somewhat sedated position, and all of them were somewhat remorse about freaking out on their kids, but also feeling somewhat justified in it.
“They’re all ungrateful urchins,” I commiserated. “But ultimately, I guess that’s our fault because we raised them that way.”
“I thought you called to cheer me up,” my friend scolded, so I went back to Nancy and feeling good about myself as a mom.
But before I got too comfortable, and parental amnesia seeped in again, I texted my sitter to cash in on that rain check.

Corbin Lewars is the author of Creating a Life: The memoir of a writer and mom in the making, which was nominated for the 2011 PNBA and Washington State book awards. Her essays have been featured in over twenty-five publications including Mothering and Hip Mama. She has been a writing coach and instructor for fifteen years and helps clients in Ballard, on-line, and over the phone.