I used to be a winter person. One of those cheerful types who rejoiced at every blizzard, relished the extreme cold, and jumped at the chance to shovel the roof. When others lamented the harsh weather, I inwardly rolled my eyes– why didn’t they move to Florida and stop complaining? I cross-country skied, snow-shoed, telemarked, played pond hockey, and went to sledding parties under the full moon. New England was for snow, cold, ice, and even sleet. Learn to love it or leave it was my philosophy.
That was B.C. (Before Children). Now I fantasize about a bungalow in San Diego or Miami Beach. Do parents down there need any outdoor gear for their kids, or is it all shorts, tees and crocs, maybe a single raincoat or fleece? I’ve calculated I spend an extra 90 minutes each day putting on and taking off sweaters, long johns, snowsuits, socks, boots, hats and mittens for two small, highly-resistant children. If my 3-year-old had her way, she wouldn’t leave the house between November and March, simply remain naked in the playroom having tea parties while her mother went slowly crazy. And my little one– she’s had a feisty temper since birth. Getting her into her winter clothes is like wrestling a bear.
Sometimes I find myself on the living room floor with two screaming girls, gritting my teeth as I shove their legs and arms into snowpants and parkas, frantically zipping them up and popping them out the door. There is no alternative. What can you do to survive a Vermont winter with small children? Is it possible to thrive, or are you condemned to five months of cabin fever? The reality is that babies are delicate and toddlers are stubborn, and many children don’t really like playing in the snow until at least age 3, because it’s hard to move around when you’re three feet tall, wading in deep snow on short legs, bundled up like the Michelin Man in awkward moon boots.
“Let’s make a snow horse!” I cheerlead, bouncing the cranky toddler on one hip. Or– “Look! There’s the school bus!” But before long a sock is itchy or someone has to pee or the other is red-cheeked and howling from wind-chill. We’ve lasted ten minutes before retreating inside, a small victory in a long afternoon. The downstairs is strewn with a hurricane of wet mittens and inside-out winter clothes that must be hung somewhere to dry. It’s only four o’clock and nearly dark, the interminable three hours till bedtime stretching before me like a tunnel. What will we do in the house all this time? One trick: don’t look at the clock. It’s what my mother calls the Witching Hour, when parents all over Vermont are thinking about a beer or cracking one open, imagining a hot bath (alone) with a good book.
Becoming a parent is a process of surrendering your old identity. The fervor that drove me to play pond hockey at midnight in twenty-below-zero temps must now be redirected. When my first baby was three months old, I hiked and skied up and down mountains with her snuggled in the front-pack. Then my mother-in-law told me a horror story about a zealous cross-country skier who loaded her infant into a backpack for a three-hour ski in Yosemite. After the exhilarating workout, she found the baby had frozen to death. I’ve had to change my expectations of winter adventure or else ask someone to watch the kids. If we do undertake a family ski day, it’s like mobilizing the Tenth Mountain Division. I must be prepared for the labor-intensive packing of gear, clothes, snacks, and toys, not to mention the travel, transitions, and risk of total nap-less meltdown. It’s usually worth the effort on a sunny weekend, but I need to keep my sense of humor and abandon my personal skiing goals.
If I was an Eskimo mother, I’d bundle up my two papooses in caribou skins– supposedly the warmest and lightest-weight fur on earth. I’d strap the small one on my chest and pull the big one in a sled and hike from igloo to ice fields to find my husband. “Here,” I’d say, handing them over. They’d be glossy and hearty from all the fish oil and would never catch a cold or the flu, or the vomiting bug that’s been making its furious way through local preschools. Then I’d stride off alone with my sled-dogs and break track for the nearest glacier.
Dripping snowmelt interrupts my reverie. February sun blazes over the snow-pack, brilliant as a beach. My girls run onto the warm front porch in their socks and frolic like spring lambs. “If you don’t like the weather, wait a minute.” goes the old New England saying. So it is in parenting– if you don’t like your child’s weather, wait a week or a few months, until they’ve grown a bit. The phases keep changing like the seasons, moving from high to low, from struggle to harmony.
I dream of the day when my kids will simply put on their boots and go out to sled. This sounds almost as good as the other day I’ve heard about, when they’ll wake early on a Saturday morning and quietly fix their own breakfast, leaving their parents to sleep in, cuddled in bed while snow falls outside.
[...] the one-year anniversary of my very first Spilt Milk column (”Cabin Fever“), we are surviving winter (a bit) more smoothly. The change is not momentous. One year [...]