For a great while, I’ve disliked winter. Any mention of it and my lip curls with disdain. Most anyone who knows me knows that I much prefer a sweltering summer day capable of dampening my thinnest t-shirts with sweat than an infertile and icy milieu that forces me to layer my clothes ad nauseam. So as you can imagine, I was equally reluctant about its approach this year.
When the last days of summer began to cool into autumn, I took a simultaneous delight and dread in feeling the morning’s air turn from warm and sticky to cool and brisk. I pulled out jeans in favor of shorts and had to wear a jacket or pullover some mornings or afternoons. Though I welcomed the change at first, I soon bemoaned it as my rifling through the dust-covered totes containing my cold-weather wardrobe grew more frequent. I took both pleasure and pain in watching the leaves on my neighboring trees turn explosive shades of red, yellow and orange, only to curl, dry, and pirouette to the ground as robust autumnal breezes rippled through them. This cyclical act of Mother Nature augured a long, cold winter that would keep me indoors a great deal of time, instigate cabin fever and long for the arrival of a spring that seemed eons away. The days would grow shorter, the earth blanketed in darkness by 6 pm, and said trees that had so gloriously rendered such dazzling, intense colors would be spindly and naked, the bareness of their limbs and branches exaggerated by a coating of snow or ice. I’d remember with chagrin that colder temperatures meant lugging a bulky coat around with me if I went somewhere, that stepping out of my warm house or warm car meant having to brave another stinging slap in my face from the frigid winds that perpetually – and sometimes intensely - blew.
But it didn’t always used to be this way. As a kid, I couldn’t wait to romp around in that blindingly white powder and build snowmen along with formidable forts to protect against heavy hits from snowball fights with my brother and the neighboring kids. Bundled up to the hilt by our discerning and sometimes overprotective mothers, we’d take those first clomping steps outside in thick-soled snow boots, faces shielded by several times-wrapped scarves (or toboggan ski masks, making us look like pint-sized bank robbers), and lay right down in our yards, burrowing through it like Thinsulate-clad moles. Those were the days – we could play outside until the snot froze on our faces and not have to worry about shoveling and salting the driveway so we could get our cars out in the morning for the drive to work. We oft prayed for those heavy snowfalls, begged for radical accumulation that would ensure a school cancellation. After all, more snow meant bigger snowmen, bigger forts and more ammunition for snowball fights. It also meant gazing upon a wonderland that only nature could provide, one that sparkled more grandly under streetlight than a field of flawless diamonds.
I got to relive this magic today when my older daughter bugged me incessantly about going outside to play in the snow. The previous day, both my husband and I had bundled up our girls and taken them out to play in the first big snowfall of the year, creating a makeshift sled out of a Rubbermaid garbage can lid and pushing them down the hill in our backyard. Having just finished their lunch and with plenty of daylight left, I suited them up once again (a process that took about 10 minutes because I’m one of those diligent mothers that cringes at the thought of her kids catching even a small chill) and braved the cold so they could enjoy themselves. I wasn’t looking forward to it – I don’t tolerate cold very well even if I’m properly dressed and I knew this wasn’t going to be a short session, being well aware of my daughters’ enthusiasm for things like this. I grudgingly resigned myself to the possibility of numbed fingers and toes and a stinging nose and cheeks by the time we made it back inside.
For the 50 minutes that we spent outdoors, I managed to forget the cold entirely, finding the warmth I needed and desired in the mega-watt smiles on my daughters’ faces. I giggled with them as they made snow angels, got knocked down by our rambunctious dogs (who sprinted and barked up and down the hill repeatedly at a dizzying pace) and glided down the slides on their playsets, plopping into the drifts with glee as they reached the bottom. It was the first time in a long time that I enjoyed being out in this kind of weather and I found myself wanting to make a habit of it, particularly when I realized the unique types of happiness it gave us: them getting to play outdoors after weeks of inside play, and me reliving the joy of my childhood memories of winter by watching them. I also realized that, in her persistence, my oldest daughter forced me to emerge from my curmudgeonly shell, stretch my arms, legs and mind, and simply enjoy this time of year instead of reviling it. That resplendent metaphorical light bulb clicked on the other day as I watched her stand with her mouth wide open, tongue protruding, catching snowflakes with a zeal that only an adult with a well-nurtured inner child can match. It made me realize I hadn’t done something as simple and frivolous as that in years because I was too busy being a Scrooge, and I turned around to face those falling flakes myself to catch a few on my tongue. In that moment my inner child rounded the corner and nailed me with a colossal snowball, and I wiped the glacial remains from my eye and smiled. It was that same snowball-wielding child that pushed me to go outside today and put an end to taking times like this for granted. She made me realize just how much I’d been missing.
She won’t let me miss it anymore. For that matter, neither will I.
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