I really want to love winter. Truly, I do. I was actually born in winter so it should be a time to celebrate. However, I remember many of my birthday parties cancelled due to illness and in many of my childhood birthday pictures I'm sporting a rather bright red mustache from wiping my nose too often. Having a birthday so close to Christmas also meant the well-intentioned but totally lame Christmas/Birthday present. I have to say that one year though it really paid off with a Cabbage Patch Kid and a trip to see Annie on Broadway. Did I mention that I had the best grandparents ever?
I guess I have a love/hate relationship with winter. There are some redeeming qualities. I love the way everything looks covered in newly fallen snow. I love how silent the world seems as the snow falls. It's almost as if you can hear each one of the flakes landing. I love the smell of fireplaces warming my neighbors homes. I love being the only one on the hiking trails and hearing my steps crunching on the frozen path. Also, there is something so satisfying in a cup of hot chocolate or bowl of savory soup after a day of sleigh-riding.
I remember the excitement of waking up to snow as a kid. I'd wait in the early morning gloom to hear how many whistles would blow from the fire station. After the last blessed blast that signaled a snow day I was too excited to possibly fall back to sleep. My house was always freezing in the morning as my frugal grandmother who controlled the thermostat for the whole house wouldn't turn the heat back on until around 8 am, so I'd wrap myself in an afghan (strategically made by said grandmother) and make my way to the kitchen. I could always count on a hearty breakfast from my robe-clad mother who would be drinking black tea as if her life depended on it. As soon as the hissing of the radiators started, that meant that I could start to get my clothes on, huddling as close to the radiator as I could (geez, you think I grew up during the Great Depression!). Now, I don't know if snow pants didn't exist in the 80's, but if they did, I didn't own a pair. I'd don my dungarees (oh yes, that's what my mom called them) and my sweater, and the hat, mittens and boots
(generally quite mismatched) and head outside into the winter wonderland. There were some snow storms where I could barely make my way through the snow. I'd drag my Radio Flyer sled (you know with the wooden planks and red metal blades) to the County Park and attempt to steer that thing away from trees and other children all morning. I could play for hours if only my damn dungarees didn't soak through and the frost bite didn't begin to burn my thighs. That was always my signal to head home. The burning of my flesh. I'd strip off my soaked clothes and lay them by the furnace to thaw and I'd drink Ovaltine in my pajamas until my my clothes were dry and then I'd start the whole process over again.
As a former frost-bite victim I have acquired an impressive collection of snow gear for my children. No child of mine has ever played in the snow without at least 4 inches of thermal, water-proof fluff to protect their chicken legs. I have bins of the stuff. Bins upon bins. When friends come over with their kids, I have enough gear for my kids and theirs and some strangers that may show up. My kids don't have to pull a rusty sled 8 blocks to a county park. They're blessed with a pretty amazing sledding track in their own backyard. They also have snow boards and plastic sleds that don't require a perfect snow terrain to whiz them down the hill. About three years ago I decided to join them and hot-dog it down the hill...threw my back out for 2 months. I wish I was kidding. I'm a bit more careful about sleigh riding now.
That's not to say that I don't get to have my fun. When I'm not mopping up the mounds of snow my kids track into the house, or drying my 20th load of snow gear, I get to have my own fun. I love simmering the Dutch cocoa on the stove for my kids knowing that their Rosy-cheeked faces will be looking for it as soon as they come back in. I get to go ice skating now as an adult and take my kids with me. This was something that was never an option in my childhood home of non-athletic and pretty much all-the-time-broke parents. I also get to watch my kids do something that I have never done (and probably never will)...snowboard. It's exhilarating to see your children master something that you know would put you in traction if you ever tried it.
Do I love winter? No. I can't lie. I will be doing a dance with the first sign of a crocus popping its head up through the thawing ground. However, that doesn't stop me from appreciating the beauty of this time of year. I love the fact that we're all kind of forced to slow down and spend more time together in our home. We don't participate in organized sports during the winter so we get to play more games with each other. I am grateful for my cozy house and am happy to say that I've become quite adept at building a mean fire in my wood-burning stove. I love my heated seats in my "new" mini van. I absolutely live to see my children's excitement when they wake up to a white world and watch as their imaginations emerge from their electronics and they build forts and igloos and snow people.
I have a confession to make. This year, late at night during one of our snow storms I was, shall we say...moved. All of the kids were in bed and it was snowing outside. The glow from our Christmas lights was playing on the falling snowflakes and I couldn't stay inside any longer. I put my coat on and went outside. I just stood there and listened to silence and then I did it. I allowed myself to dance. Throwing my arms out wide, I gave in to that inner-child-like rapture and twirled around in the snow. It only lasted a moment, and I laughed at myself, but I didn't feel foolish. I still don't. I felt as if winter and I made peace with each other if even for a fleeting moment.
