Birthday Future

I leave work a little early, walking through the crisp cold air in the darkness, a flashing light on my backpack to warn cyclists on the path that I am there. My phone vibrates as I pull my hat on: Jake has texted me, "Kids asked for Thai, so I ordered curry and noodles. Should be here by the time you arrive. Hurry home!" I step up the pace a little bit, thinking about that soft fluffy rice and the golden curried potatoes swimming in sauce. A few light snowflakes begin to fall on the bare street.

The house is lit up when I walk up the driveway, and as I open the door the warmth and delicious aroma of Thai food hits me in the face. Christmas music is playing. I sit down to take off my boots and my scarf, and Milo comes racing into the kitchen in his socks, sliding around the corner. "Mom! It's supposed to be a blizzard tonight! We're going to have a snow day tomorrow, I just know it!" "Huh," I say, "Well, it was starting to snow just now. So, you never know, I guess." I shrug off my backpack and walk into the kitchen, where Jake is setting out plates and cups. He grins over the bags of takeout and glances over at Nora, perched on the bar stool and studiously writing something.

"Hi Sweetie," I say, kissing Nora's head. "Moooom," she drags it out into two syllables, "I'm busy planning out our day tomorrow, since we're not going to have school." "You two seem awfully confident," I say, hoping they won't be too disappointed if they don't get a snow day for their birthday. Milo bounces around the kitchen, and says "We're going to make it happen. We're wearing our pajamas inside out tonight, and we're going to sleep with spoons under our pillows." "And we're going to flush an ice cube down the toilet," Nora solemnly informs me. "It's guaranteed to work!" says Milo. I ask, "If it's guaranteed to work, why don't you do that every night?" Milo rolls his eyes. "Well of course it wouldn't work if we did it every night!"

As we eat our dinner the snow falls more heavily, and Nora and Milo are bursting with excitement. They flush the ice cube down the toilet, put their pajamas on inside out, and shove spoons beneath their pillows. The snow swirls around the house. I kiss each of them good night, and I tell Milo "We'll still have a great birthday tomorrow, even if you do have school. Don't forget, we're having the skating party at 3:30." He looks at me seriously. "We're not going to have school tomorrow, Mom. Just wait. You'll see."

That night Jake and I stay up late. He watches a movie while I finish up some last-minute grading, sipping on a mug of hot chocolate. A fire crackles in the fireplace. The snow keeps coming, the flakes huge and thick, and just before I head to bed at midnight, the text comes to my phone: "All schools in Dane County closed for Thursday, December 14." I'm relieved and excited. I knew the kids would be fine either way, but starting their birthday with the excitement of a snow day instead of the disappointment of another school morning was going to make the day extra special.

By the time I wake up, the light is filtering in through the windows, and I can smell pancakes downstairs. Looking outside, I see a whopping foot or more of snow, but it seems to be done for the morning. Our little drive is completely snowed in; the plow hasn't come by yet. I check my email to find out that the university has also closed down for the first time in 8 years. I think back to how the last time the university closed, the kids were just turning 2 and Nora cried every time we took her out into the snow.

I wander downstairs and Jake has a plate of pancakes on the table. "They're already outside skating," he tells me. "They ran over to Millie's and Rueben's and rounded them up for an impromptu game on the ice." I glance out the window and see the kids skating on the rink. I open the door for a moment and the cold air hits, as do the sounds of excited voices and laughter on the rink. I pause for a beat and every moment of their lives slams into me: The doctor's appointments. The injections. That first ultrasound, when we saw two tiny beating hearts, and I started sobbing in relief. The IVs. The 2 a.m. feedings. The reflux. The diapers. Potty training. The first day of school. The accidents, the bumps and bruises, the visits to the emergency room, the worrying. The kisses, the sudden hugs, the tiny hands gripping my own.

I mentally try to stop time, to remember this, all of it. Because I know that the next 10 years are going to go by as quickly as the first 10 have, and I'm going to turn around and they'll be all grown up.