The other day, we got some snow. It was only enough to make it look as though some deranged baker had flown a plane over the city and dusted the roof tops with a very slight layer of powdered sugar, and it was definitely not enough to cover the grass or even make the roads damp. However, this being Tennessee, schools were canceled. Seriously. (I'm shaking my head in disgust as I type this.) I spent the first 13 years of my life in Michigan where I really can't remember school ever actually being canceled, and the fact that me getting to work on time very much depends on my kids going to school on time just adds to my frustration over our county officials canceling school because of some random patches of snow on the roof tops of our homes.
This is an ACTUAL PICTURE in my neighborhood of the "hazardous road conditions" that forced school to be canceled:
Ok, ok. I'll stop. I'll pretend I didn't get a half an occurrence at work because I didn't give proper notice that I would be late since I really didn't expect school to get canceled over this poor excuse for a snow storm. I'll pretend I didn't post a Facebook status asking for prayers that I would make it out of my driveway safely.
Instead of stewing at home about being late for work, I decided I would have fun with my kids and feed them instead of yelling at them as a form of releasing some of my frustrations. Which, honestly, I probably did too. Anyways. My youngest son wanted waffles, so I whipped up a batch of homemade waffle batter and broke out the waffle iron and totally made homemade waffles for him like my neighbors make for their kids.
Except that I don't actually own a waffle iron, nor do I have the slightest clue as to how one makes waffle batter. So what I REALLY did was break out a box of store brand frozen waffles and pop those bad boys in the toaster. GO ME! After they were done cooking, I slapped them on a plate and hand-delivered them to the table for my youngest son's dining enjoyment, and then I sort of lost my focus and may have wandered into the living room with my BlackBerry, maybe responding to some texts and some Facebook notifications. Maybe.
The next thing I heard was my son muttering under his breath and making frustrated noises that I know from past experience usually precede something getting exploded or someone getting blasted with the flying fists of a livid five-year-old. I bolted back into the kitchen to find him struggling to open the little bottle of syrup he had gotten out of the pantry. Upon closer inspection, I became immensely grateful for his inability to open the bottle of syrup because it was less an actual bottle of syrup and more a miniature bottle of Bailey's liqueur that must have fallen off the top shelf of the pantry and made its way into the hungry, waffle-crazy hands of a small child who couldn't read the label to know that it wasn't syrup.
I quickly substituted some kid-friendly syrup for the adult beverage and my little guy was on his way to waffle eating bliss. Eventually I made it to work, only 3 hours late, after my husband's shift ended and he was able to make it home through the blizzard to swap child-care duties with me.