Snow and the case of mistaken identity

So the Island received snow yesterday. And in true Island fashion it comes floating down in great huge flakes, blanketing everything in clean white strokes of winter wonder. It gave the children about a half an hour of pure bliss of running in it, gathering it up (along with leaves, cigarette butts and rocks) to make snowballs, cheering madly that we have snow for Christmas. Let's be real everyone, we did not even have snow for lunchtime. It melted before we even persuaded Quinn to wear her winter boots. And not her tutu.

Let's be clear on one thing. Snow in Northern BC = beauty. Long lasting whiteness. Five, sometimes six, months of whiteness. Snow on the Island = rain before long. Short lived fun. Long lived slush. Drivers with socks and sandals. Cars with the top down and the heat on. Five, maybe six minutes of whiteness. Not fun in my books.

But, alas. Old Mother Hubbard also visited us throughout the week and our cupboards were bare. We had no fruit. No veggies. No cream for coffee. Cereal, no milk. Time to part with cash and eat. So we venture out in the white slush and go to the grocery store. Only to remember that my van is involved in a move this weekend and the car that is in my driveway is very tiny. As in smartie size. As in, my kids and my purse are inside and I feel claustrophobic. That tiny. But we have to eat, so off we go. Quinn squished in her car seat with a snowsuit on. Roger beside me. Me breathing into a paper bag as I feel the world closing in on me. $200 later we are like a side show at the circus attempting to find room for all of this lovely food. We drive home with Quinn having the dubious honor of riding shotgun with the eggs and bread. Unload the groceries and I say to Roger, "hmmm, seemed like a lot in the car, why does the fridge seem like $200 more would nicely fit?"

Conclusion made. I am a driver of a minivan. Sadly as that sounds I am. I like the room, the space between me and the kids. I like that we have three row seating. That no one kicks the back of my seat. I like that 4 litres of milk does not make the van "full". So if you happen to see me driving a little black smartie around town, cutting people off and driving too fast - that was my alter ego. Not the real Michelle.

Plus all Celiacs know. Smarties are not gluten-free anyhow.