Family Shenanigans: Making “Snow” Angels

They were just being resourceful… I mean really, what was she going to do with 2½ pounds of flour anyway? Gee, Mom, give a kid a break.

In an unprecedented moment in Diener Family life, my kids were just plain boring in the last week and I was stumped for a good shenanigans tale. Desperate, I pleaded for someone to bail me out in a Facebook status, and my friend Meredith had a real humdinger of a tale. I promise, it’s completely true, as told to me (with a little tweaking, permission provided…think of it as based on a true story- the story is true but the telling is a little beefed up—you’re required to enjoy it anyway).

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Making “Snow”Angels

The frenzy of festive un-bedecking had passed. The children were hyped up on Christmas and New Gift Fever (that’s a real thing, ask any parent) and were doing their best at imitating electrons in orbit.

On the other side of the room, Mom and Dad were simultaneously feeling the drag of a too early, too active morning and the panic of being late- again. Supper at the in-law's begins when?

It was a perfect storm. All the elements were in place at exactly the right time.

And, like any good parents do, they thought to save the children first.

It was a tangled mess of arms and sleeves and socks and hair bows and diapers and toes. And at the end, out popped two fully-dressed children. Each festooned appropriately for Grandma and Grandpa’s house and a visit with all the aunts and uncles and cousins, and possibly the second cousin of the neighbor that used to live next door but moved to Florida eight years ago. This is to say, there would be a lot of people there.

With only moments to spare, Dad rushed upstairs to don his proper apparel, and Mom headed downstairs to do the same.

They say it only takes a minute for disaster to strike. So it seems reasonable that four minutes was more than ample time for Big Sister Gwen and Little Brother Aaron to dig up, or in this case, pour out- some trouble.

It’s never the screams or crying that terrifies a parent (okay, sometimes it is, but that has to be a special kind of scream or cry), it’s the silence and the odd assortment of laughs. And so it was this day.

Euphoric giggling met Mom’s ears as she neared the top of the stairs. Mom’s pulse picked up its pace even while her feet slowed (a natural reaction, no one really wants to see how bad it is).

There, in the middle of kitchen was a small naked boy, well, mostly naked. He had his diaper on. In the throes of unbridled laughter, he stood, bag turned upside-down, dumping out the last specks of flour onto the floor.

Dusty flour clouds billowed, catching in the drafts from the heat register. It was astounding how far two and a half pounds of flour could spread.

And there, at Aaron’s little feet, was his giddy sister, on her back. Her arms and legs swinging out and back, as she did her very best to make a snow angel.

Thankfully, Mom has a sense of humor and instead of letting a little Christmas snow get in the way of a good time, she ran and got the camera instead of a sour expression. (Kudos to Mom for that.)

Though it wasn't explicitly stated, I believe all managed to find themselves dressed and, though late, at Grandma's and Grandpa's house in time for supper.

And so far, they are all living happily after.

The end.


Mom wants you to know that Aaron was a good sport and brought out his new Dyson to help tidy up afterwards. And, those pants in the snow angel picture- they started out black.
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A huge thanks to my friend Meredith Hildebrant for letting me borrow her story, and having some fun in telling it. Meredith and I met through a club online, our bellies full of baby girl overlapped for a while. I hope I did your story justice, Mer.

And I hope all of you enjoyed her story, too.

Editorial note: Meredith said that the kids did the same thing the next day, only with confectioner’s sugar. Can you imagine? I know it's naughty but the lyrics, "pour some sugar on me..." popped into my head when I read that. Hey, it gave it an innocent and amusing spin.