Fingers Crossed

 

I believe in superstitions. In a pick-and-choose fashion.

Black cats don’t trouble me; Toulouse is blacker than coal and he crosses my path morning and night.

But I won’t walk under a ladder. I pick up pennies for good luck.

And I’ve created my own odd beliefs. Years ago when I horse showed every week, I always left the dry cleaner tag stapled inside my show coat — to help me win. Even now, I don’t remove it. Fox hunting, I leave the tag in my coat to ward off falls.

So I’m well-versed in superstitions.┬áBut yesterday the kids introduced a new one.

Tonight, Hadley will wear her PJs inside out and Cayden will flush ice cubes down the toilet. To make it snow.

I’d never heard of such a thing. But Google quickly confirmed that flushing cubes (or placing them on the porch); wearing PJs inside out; and tucking a spoon beneath a pillow, are time-honored, snow-wishing traditions.

Cayden, how many ice cubes do we need?” Hadley asked as we drove last night. “One for every inch of snow that we want?

No, it’s three!” I called out, picturing the kids dumping the freezer’s cavernous ice tray in the toilet. “Three ice cubes will make it snow.

I know it’s irrational — fretting about ice that will surely melt. But I don’t want their┬ásuperstition clogging my toilet.

 

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