Weekends are trying times when it snows, not only snows but dumps incessantly, drifts climbing higher and higher with the relentless wind that stings the face with icy pellets. Even the boy declines to go out in this weather. The drifts being much taller than he is, this is comforting. Even with the pylon orange winter coat I chose for its high visibility factor (the boy being hard to keep an eye on) I do not relish an afternoon spent shoveling through snowbanks looking for him. The first snow day is torturously long, the snow is still falling and the roads are not cleared. There is little escape. The children know only two games, tormenting each other and tormenting their mother. The day is endless for all of them. The second snow day brings finally some relief.

"Mom, Amanda says it is okay to come over to her house... is it okay with you"?

Okay? Okay? I am jubilant beyond words. I have a dream. One child only, one small and slender child, who takes up little room and is satisfied to play or watch TV and has no sibling counterpart to join him in timed raids on his mother's sanity.

"I suppose it is alright" I answer, trying to keep the enthusiasm out of my voice. "Is her mother home"?

"Yeah, and she said I can come over for a play date. Will you take me"?

Will I take you? I will fly you on gossamer wings, my daughter.

"Yes, I will take you over, but I have to get dressed first and dress the boy. Tell her it will be about half an hour. And take off that sundress and wear real clothes or you will have people calling the authorities on me, it is 14 degrees out there."

Half an hour in mother terms is an interminable length of time when it requires the cooperation of children to ready themselves for departure. Once I have managed to dress, I have to run down the boy and force pants on him, his predilection being for wearing as little as possible indoors. Once he sets foot in the house, off come the shoes, the socks and often, the pants. Not ever having been a boy, I cannot determine if this is normal behavior. However, not wishing to instill in him either an unhealthy shame of his body, nor feed a natural inclination towards exhibitionism, I insist he keeps his underwear on at all times. I am not a permissive mother, just one who has yet to find a therapist who gives group rates.

I instruct the boy as to where his shoes are and ask him to put them on. He is perfectly capable of this task, he just wants to avoid it as long as possible. While putting in my contact lenses I see that he has overlooked the shoes but found a stray plastic wand from one of the blinds and is swinging it about, emitting battle cries in Japanese. Suddenly he stops to ask me what seems a very logical question.

"Mom, do monkeys have sticks"?

Despite the cruelty of it, I do in fact launch into a description of termites and how certain primates use sticks as tools to extract termites from their mounds to eat them. I was kind and did not continue into a discourse on the difference between monkeys and apes nor the value of the opposable thumb. He likes the idea of anything that eats bugs, so he listens, but I feel his five year old brain is not retaining this useful information. For a moment later he is hitting himself in the head with the wand.

"Mom, ants eat off the ground, right?"

"That's right Matthew".

"Yeah", he grins. "I'm smart".

"Well", I said. "We'll see how long that lasts if you continue hitting yourself in the head with a stick".

This, of course, is followed by raucous laughter, but probably it is his own joke he finds so funny. These jokes of his are obviously hilarious, yet he never shares them with the rest of us.

I take the stick and hand him his shoes, which he has inexplicably placed in a plastic shopping bag instead of on his feet. I gather keys and pocketbook, smear on a little lipstick out of vanity and retrieve coats from the closet. I turn to see the still stocking-footed boy sitting on an chair swinging his legs and mumbling some strange language only he knows. Suddenly he stops and looks at me with an accusing, scowling glare.

"I dreamed you left me all alone".

"In two minutes I will be leaving you all alone, if you don't have your shoes on". I again push the shoes at him.

"I dreamed you left me all alone", he repeats, with an insistence that implies an apology from me is necessary.

"In the dream, did you have your shoes on"? I ask as I open the door to depart. I walk out of the house, showing my willingness to leave him.

A moment later a small boy, with anxious eyes and shod feet appears at the door. I sigh at the thought of the extensive effort it requires to win one small battle. The shoes are on the wrong feet but he is wearing them, and yet...

"Where's your coat"?