I hope I am not stoned for saying this, but I really like snow days. I have waited to make this confession until spring has arrived to not anger those people who are outdoors, knee-deep with a snow shovel, or home with kids who are going stir crazy. Or those who have baked so many cookies, the only flour left in the house is a thin dusting coating every surface in the kitchen, like an indoor blizzard.

I probably shouldn’t like snow days as much as I do; after all, on a regular day, three of my kids go to school, and I am left to care for only one, who usually naps, giving me an hour or two of free time. Granted this free time is sometimes spent cleaning their rooms or sort­ing through old clothes, but I’ll admit, I do par­ticipate in some activities that are solely for my enjoyment. And so, snow days are not a day off for me, but a day on.

Seeing that first weather forecast fills me with excitement, a suspenseful thrill that grows and blossoms, and wakes me up at night to pull back my curtains, to check on the progress of the storm, to check if school is cancelled or on delay. Sometimes, in the evening, I am lured outside by an overflowing kitchen garbage can that is threatening to erupt, and I am struck by the silence, the stillness in the trees, the way I can hear and see my own breath, a cloud be­tween the falling flakes. The animals have dis­appeared (probably under my porch), and it is like I am alone on earth, leaving a trail of my footprints. These, too, will disappear, erasing all traces that I exist. Everything I touch, every­where I go, is momentarily imprinted and then forgotten.

This behavior is not new for me and I have been doing this since my own school years. So engrained is my visceral reaction to the news of snow that I have been trained to jump with glee at the news of any impending storm. “It’s going to snow!” I tell the kids excitedly, before they go to bed at night, even though there are already 14 inches of ice on the ground and my car is parked on a snow bank so high it is tip­ping over. I am still excited, they are excited, and they sleep in fits, waiting for the news of a school cancellation.

We don’t bake. We don’t watch TV or play on the computer. We don’t do organized art projects. I don’t perform puppet shows. It is a day that the kids orchestrate. It is a day for them to direct, to manipulate, to hang on and see where the ride takes them. They engage in creative play, argue and fight, and spend hours basking in the pleasure of snow-related activ­ities until their cheeks burn, their fingers are numb, and the snow fills up their boots.

For a year and half, we lived in Florida and I couldn’t reconcile with the constant warmth, couldn’t come to terms with the fact that there were never any snow days. I missed the sus­pense, the impending excitement, the pris­tine morning silence, the rhythmic falling of the snow, the unstructured bonus day home. There were “hurricane days” while we lived there, but those mostly just instilled fear and danger, and didn’t bring about any bit of posi­tive feelings. Plus, we have that here, too.

I was pretty disappointed this spring with all of those fake-out snow storms we had. I was hoping to have one last hurrah with win­ter, a final goodbye to all that it was. And when the snow didn’t fall, and the mornings boast­ed bare branches with green buds pushing through, I knew it was time to put away the snow boots, the heavy snow pants left on hooks on the back of the door, the waterproof mittens. The snow shovel will hibernate in the garage until next winter, and we will take out our bikes and gardening shovels and wipe down the thick layer of dirt coating the swings and slide.

We welcome spring with joyous relief and will welcome winter back again in a few months, when we are done sweating through the heavy humidity of the summer, when our hair frizzes up, and there is a sticky glow on our faces. When raking leaves becomes less fun and when we wait for the world around us to slowly, quietly, take a break. To remind us to make deeper foot­prints, to make lasting impressions, to make an impact, even in the highest snow bank.

Sarah Abenaim is a freelance writer living with her husband and four children in Teaneck. She is work­ing on her first book. More of her essays can be read at www.writersblackout.wordpress.com. She can be reached at [email protected].

By Sarah Abenaim