I don’t like winter.  I don’t like being cold, being wet or shoveling.  I dislike winter coats, hats make my hair fuzzy and I can’t ever find my gloves.

And my poor kids pay the price.  Because I hated sledding, I’ve never taken them.  My dominant sledding memories are walking all the way up to the Maynard Golf Course with my cousin Becky, cold, wet, dragging along a sled.  Sure, there was that momentary thrill of winging down the hill, but then you had to lug the damn sled back up and hope nobody sledded into you.  And then there was the time that my aunt Cathy put me and little Mandi on a sled and pushed us off down a hill.  Into a lake.

It’s snowing.  Again.  And my kids are restless and need to go outside.  I know this.  I tried, valiantly, last time to get them to go outside by themselves.  Build a snowman, I told them.  As though it was intuitive – they would just know what to do and how to do it.  It lasted all of ten minutes before Jessie stormed back in, fuming at her brother.  Another five before little icy Julie crept back in, crying because her cheeks were so cold.  Sam went the longest – and actually got some nice shoveling done before the cold got to him.

I know I have to take them out there.  I know that building a snowman is fun, in theory.  I know it’ll make lovely memories, and that they’ll be all happy and content, when they get to come home and see how cute he is.

I’m just working up the energy.  And praying for spring to come.  I like spring.  Summer, I flat out adore summer.  But winter – winter is just guilt layered over frigid temps on top of icy cold fingers and toes.

 

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