I hope Old Man Winter breaks a hip

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Until yesterday I was ready to suck it up and kick the whining about this, the winter that never ends. You picked Vermont, I said. It’s still March, I reminded myself. And then I read an article confirming that this IS THE COLDEST MOTHER F’ING WINTER IN 130 YEARS.

While I’m thankful this confirmation means I’m not suddenly going full wuss on winter, the record itself can go straight to hell.

I’m just done. Done with coats, which I stopped washing a month ago. Unless one of those kids falls into a legit pile of dog shit, they’re not getting cleaned until we’re shoving them into storage when the sun finally comes back. (Ok. Let’s be honest, by that point I’ll be so sick of looking at them they’ll be doused in gasoline and set on fire.) I’m done keeping track of hats and gloves and scarves. When it’s finally over, I’m taking EVERY.SINGLE.SNOW BOOT and lobbing them like god damn shot puts into Lake Champlain. The snow pants, if I don’t fashion them into a noose and hang myself in the basement with them first, will be ceremoniously ripped into a thousand pieces and scattered out the sun roof of a moving vehicle.

Look how much fun they're having.

Look how much fun they’re having.

At least once a day I find myself pouring through photos on my camera roll, the ones I’ve left since last summer, like they’re images of dead relatives.

“See?”, I say to my two year old. “Remember when we used to go outside without coats or even shoes? Wasn’t that lovely?”

“There too much snow out dere, Mama. It cold. I hafta wear mine coat.”

“It won’t always be like that, love.”

“Yes. It will.”

Good god. Does she know something I don’t? Or has the 47 combined hours of watching Frozen videos on Youtube (BECAUSE I’M GRASPING AT STRAWS HERE IN THE ENTERTAINMENT DEPARTMENT) replaced the corner of her brain that once held the memories of grass between her toes and playing outside without crying?

I’ve tried to embrace the season and attempt to enjoy what winter has to offer. As luck would have it, the first time I convinced the two year old to take a ride down the sledding hill, she veered to the right like a moth to a flame directly into the only sledders at the bottom of the hill. It was also the last time. We then ate granola bars in the car for half an hour.

In an attempt to keep the snow out of her eyes, she dug up her brother's 39 cent chemistry kit goggles. She subsequently spent about 1/3 as much time outside as it took to locate them.

In an attempt to keep the snow out of her eyes, she dug up her brother’s 39 cent chemistry kit goggles. She subsequently spent about 1/3 as much time outside as it took to locate them.

Giving up on the great outdoors, I’ve taken to the petri dishes of indoor entertainment and attended every playgroup, open gym, music time, and story hour in a 15 mile radius with her. I’ve suffered the defeat of an afternoon at Pizza Putt (think Chuck E. Cheese on a smaller, more depressing scale with a side of hand foot and mouth disease) and enough trips to the local Lake Aquarium that I’m on a first name basis with the entire turtle collection.

At home, the lowest point may have been the day I vetoed letting my 8 year old hurl himself down the stairs on a crib mattress, but only because there isn’t enough clearance at the bottom. Instead, the screen time limits have devolved from a couple hours per week to “I think the xbox overheated again”. The two year old holds the record of 3 baths in one day simply because I’VE RUN OUT OF IDEAS.

Every single one of us has puked at least once. (Bobby, on the way home from Christmas Day spent at his family’s house WHILE HE WAS DRIVING.) It seems like each week is a Russian Roulette of maladies, from fevers to mucus fests. My hands look like they belong to an octogenarian and possess as much moisture as the Gobi desert from washing them a few dozen times per day.

I know it’s not going to last forever, a few more weeks at best. But once, in recent years there were flurries on Mother’s day. On that occasion I think I may have cried. But if it happens this year, I’ll punt an old lady like a football.


It's like the god damn Game of Thrones up in here.

It’s like the god damn Game of Thrones up in here.



amateur comedian, professional bullshitter. will take pay in baked goods once already rich.

  • Tessa Valyou

    yes to all. That article made me feel a little better, like it wasnt just me being a big wuss. I dont have much mom guilt, but letting my under 2 year old (oh no, screen time under 2?! conflicted!) watch Curious George has pretty much gotten us through this winter. He is starting to sound like a monkey. So thank you for being honest. Heres to the first day of spring… at least the birds sound cheerful. I am thinking about putting flower wrapping paper on my windows so I dont have to look at the winter anymore. Its like when they put the fake ocean seen behind the fish tank… sigh…

    • OddlyWellAdjusted

      Oh, I’m so done trying to entertain. I’m like, “how about a show while you’re waiting for your movie?”.

  • Kristen Shamis

    Your description of pizza putt is absolute perfection!

  • Gwen Gray Lavoie

    turtles are shy…yall must have spent an ungodly amount of time there to make that happen

    • OddlyWellAdjusted

      Not as shy as the mudpuppies, whom Josie loving refers to as “The poops”.

  • Heather.

    KIER’S FACE in that sledding picture. Omg.