by Elizabeth Williams
I sit, staring at my computer screen.
Upstairs, my 10-year-old daughter shrieks, “I hate you!”
Her brother rumbles a reply. He’s 13, and his newly deep voice still surprises me.
She shrieks again.
School is cancelled because of snow, my husband is out of town, and I’m the lucky one who works from home.
I type “Interim Report.”
Two words of my 2,000-word report, due tomorrow. I think of the times I’ve chided my kids for doing homework at the last moment.
“Hypocrite,” I mutter, getting up for more coffee. The dog follows me into the kitchen, settling on the doormat with a disappointed sigh when he realizes I’m not preparing food.
Thundering on the stairs announces my daughter’s arrival, her face tear-stained, her brother-adjacent scowl in place. Behind her looms my son. He is suddenly much taller, to her annoyance.
“Will you make pancakes?” he asks.
“I’m working,” I say. “I don’t get snow days.”
He groans theatrically and rummages in the fridge. His sister flops down beside the dog, saying, “I’m bored, Mom.”
“Catch up on your reading log,” I say.
I go back and stare at my computer screen until movement at the window draws my eye. A chickadee is at the feeder. I stand, taking in the whole view. The evergreen trees are a Christmas card, their dark green branches adorned with white.
I go back into the kitchen. My son is holding the orange juice container out of his sister’s reach: He’s laughing, she’s screaming, the dog is barking.
“Enough!” I roar.
They stop, and look at me.
“Get your outdoor stuff on.”
“I don’t want to shovel,” my daughter whines.
“Me neither,” I say. “We’re going for a walk in the woods.”
“But you have to work,” says my son.
I shrug. “I’ll stay up late tonight, and do it.”
The snow is powdery and easy to walk through. The dog circles us, his tail joyful. Blue jays, jewel-toned against the spruce trees, call us, and the path tempts us to go farther.
On our way back, my daughter spots a deer going into the trees. She grabs her brother’s arm, pointing, and he looks in time to see the white tail disappear.
Our house looks cosy against the snow, and beckons us inside to warmth.
“Pancakes for lunch?” I ask.
The kids cheer, and race with the dog to the back porch.
