I wanted to be all huffy about Kim Brooks' essay about raising her son
in cold climes this week. After all, Bad Parent: Cold Comfort points a
finger at Northeasterners like me as "bad parents."
But my righteous indignation falls woefully short. I hate the cold.
And before you get that Mommy tone of voice on and tell me "hate is a strong word, young lady," let me tell you - I REALLY hate the cold. What's more, I refuse to do fun things outside in the cold with my over-eager pre-schooler.
The
pending invitation to a sleigh-riding party for one of her little
friends' birthdays has me pinning my hopes on no shadow for that pesky
groundhog next week. A born and raised New Yorker, I should be used to it - at least
that's what everyone tells me. But like Brooks, I often rue the day I
left Virginia with its barely there winters and its elongated summers.
I could blame it all on my asthma, aggravated by the cold, but that's
truly only a fraction of my distaste for winter.
I hate driving in it - especially now that I'm a mother. Gripping
the steering wheel while she chatters in the backseat, I've used the
"shut up" words - the words I never, ever wanted to say in front of my
daughter - out of pure fear. Before, it was only me who could be hurt;
now it's her life at stake. It makes it harder to get out of the house
for those indoor/away from home activities that Oz shared in her list
of what to dos in winter.
I hate tromping through the snow, the cuffs of my pants filling
with chunks of slush, the water wicking up my jeans and leaving my
calves cold and chafed. I hate the wind, whipping past my face and
leaving my cheeks chapped and raw. I hate shoveling, the back-breaking
work a reminder of all the childhood school cancellations ruined by
afternoons spent in the yard making paths to the bus and paths to my
father's shop.
Even the so-called fun - the winter sports - don't hold a candle to
a good book and a soft spot on the couch. I'm resigned to my inner
klutz, which has made skiing, snowboarding, snowshoeing and the like
utterly impossible and utterly unenjoyable. Time spent on the ground,
rubbing my sore tush, could be better spent, I figured, inside making
blanket forts and baking cookies.
And still, my daughter - like Kim's little boy - stares plaintively
out the window. She begs to be released from the confines of the house
for just a little while to run and jump with the dog in the wonderful
world of white.
And I say no.
I'm waiting for her to grow up a little, to
be old enough to be trusted outside alone for a little while (we do
live on a back road, in a quiet neighborhood, so that day will come). So Kim, if you're a bad parent; I am too. But hopefully our kids will be just as bad - and grow up to hate the cold!
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