I know now that we were spoiled out of our minds.
The weather has turned. Instead of rain, we're getting snow.
And days when my kids actually want to wear coats instead of me begging on my knees for them to at least just put one in their backpack so I don't get yelled at by their teacher or receive a letter from the school with a polite inquiry as to whether I'm aware of the free coats available at our local food pantry.
It's starting to get cold in earnest now, and I'm already weary of this.
I know I have readers in Minnesota, Canada, and since Google Analytics tells me a large portion of my readership lately has been coming from Russia, possibly in Siberia, who are probably banging their fists on the keyboard and yelling things at me through the screen that would make a sailor blush.
For what I'm about to say, I'm sorry. It hasn't even been below 10 degrees Farenheit here yet. You have it worse than I do, and you have since October. You win. Unluckily for you, I'm a poor loser and a complainer.
You see, the cold has a way of transforming things I used to love into things I fear.
The hot shower to which I used to so look forward is now a torture device. There's no conceivable way for all 360 degrees of me to stay warm at the same time, so even though I crank up the hot water and possibly smell burning flesh on one side of me, I'm still shivering and chattering because of the cold on the other side.
Ten minutes, fifteen minutes go by and I'm still in the shower. I don't even enjoy it anymore, but I'm too afraid to get out because it'll be even worse. (It occurs to me that this sounds like an abusive relationship, but I'm just not sure how to quit showering for an entire season.)
I'm already a terrible night owl, mainly because I think sleep is boring, but adding the prospect of sandwiching myself between a freezing cold mattress and blankets at night makes it even worse. I'll put it off as long as possible.
Usually there's some sort of intense bargaining ritual involving picking a number or rock-paper-scissors to figure out which poor sap (Phillip or I) has to go in first.
And then in the mornings, I lie there huddled under the blanket that just finally started keeping me warm about 15 minutes ago, not wanting to get out. A small child hid my slippers two days ago and the hardwood floor will shrivel my bare feet up like prunes on contact.
So I lie there for a while, dreading any appointments outside of the house we have that day. I'll take that lovely hot shower I mentioned, bundle up, open the door, and feel the piercing sting of my nose hairs instantly freezing as the air hits my face.
I repeat: when I go outside there is ice INSIDE OF MY NOSE. This is not okay.
I'll barely be able to stutter a reply to my preschooler asking, "Why is there smoke coming out of our mouths, Mommy?" and even though I put on my driving mittens — yes, I have a pair of dedicated "driving mittens" in the car because I'm 90 years old and gloves aren't warm enough — all the warmth will still be sucked out of my hands by the frozen steering wheel.
We're not there yet, but we will be.
And I am very, very afraid.
|Circa February 2015 - Don't you just hate it when you lose your preschooler in the snow?|