Snow Fair

We got a lot of snow last night, almost a foot.

Because we live on a very busy country highway, I love how quiet it gets during a snowstorm. At night, as the flakes fall, one of my favorite things to do is to look out the window and watch the road disappear underneath a blanket of white.

Then morning comes, and with it, the harsh reality: somebody has to remove all of this snow from our steps and driveway.

I start hating the snow. It is cold and disgusting, a nuisance. It's not even safe to look at-- you can go blind if you stare at it for too long. I want the snow gone.

In days past, removing the snow would have been easy, a real no-brainer. Jen and I would put on our coats, mittens, and hats, and head on outside to get rid of the snow, together. Even with the benefit of an atmosphere-pollutin' snow-blower (shut up, Al Gore, you electricity hog), Jen's woman-power and shoveling were a key part of the snow-removal process.

Now, things have changed. Jen is pregnant. There are a lot of things she can't do anymore. Clean the cats' litter boxes, drag the garbage cans down to the road, or shovel snow. There is no woman-power available. Just man-power. Some men are very manly and tough--they know how to tap into and utilize all of their man-power. Not me. On a good day, I can only muster-up about one-half of a man-power. So basically, I know I'm about to walk out the door and get my rather large behind handed to me by Mother Nature.

So, even though it's totally despicable, I ask my 6+ months pregnant wife, "Are you sure you can't shovel?" Jen stares at me.

"You're kidding, right?". I can see it in her eyes. What is the spineless creature that I once thought was a man? I don't even try to save face; there's no point. I have shown my true color, and it is banana slug yellow.

I slowly crawl my way outside, leaving behind a slimy trail of shame.

For the next two hours I shovel the steps and clear the driveway with the snow-blower. It is hard work. And I'm not pregnant. I can't believe I actually asked Jen to come out here and help me. I look up to the gray sky. Dear Jesus, what have I become?

Okay, I didn't talk to Jesus, but I did feel worse about asking my pregnant wife to shovel snow. I can't get over what an unlovable monster she must think I am.

I finish the snow removal and head back into the house.

The cats are waiting for me at the door, just like always.

And so is Jen. With a steaming hot cup of coffee. "Thank you for shoveling," she says, and gives me a hug. I hug back, feeling the warm baby-bump that is her belly between us. I realize something. I would do anything for her and Gaius.

"I love you," I say, holding her with one hand and my cup of coffee with the other.

No apologies are needed. This is what love is all about.

"Good," Jen says, "I love you, too. The cat boxes need to be cleaned."