Dear winter, Fine, I'll say it. Winter mixed with my baby leaves a lot to be desired. I know, I know, this letter is a different tone than the one I wrote to you before Christmas. I'm always excited for your arrival. I'm ready to hang up my V-neck tees for hoodies. I get to wrap up in cardigans. I don't have to shave as much when you're around, and it's socially acceptable to eat cake regularly. And when you gave me snow on Christmas Eve, I thought it was an expression of your love.
But I now realize I was simply drunk with the Christmas spirit and had a touch of Stockholm Syndrome. Thanks to you, I've been barricaded in my house for months now, and the thrill is gone.
You see, I have a baby. Last year, she was a newborn, so yes, I realize you were my perfect excuse to get out of all social engagements so I could roam around my house like a sleep-deprived bag lady untethered by the burden of social norms and etiquette. But she's 13 months old now, and the game has changed.
You might be thinking, "Well, I just gave a totally overhyped winter storm that had many people thrilled for a snow day, so you could try to be more grateful." Every day during winter with a baby is a snow day, sir. Sure, it's all fun and board games and warm soup and cuddling and watching movies at first. But after a while, you start sneaking off into your closet to search for a new family on Craigslist.
The truth is, ever since you dropped below 50 degrees, every action outside the house requires asking myself the question, "Is it worth bundling up my baby while she fusses, fights her coat, kicks off both shoes and one sock, rips her hat off indignantly and looks at me with eyes of abandonment while I buckle her into her car seat?"
The answer most of the time is no. I'll watch another rerun of "Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives" while slipping into a seasonal depression, thank you very much.
And I know I go on and on about how gorgeous you are at first. Bright sun, glistening white snow. Snowflakes fluttering from the sky like heaven on earth. That's what first attracted me to you. But then one day I look over and you're a big pile of mud slush, pale and overcast with a 30 percent chance of freezing drizzle. You've really let yourself go.
I guess what I'm saying is, I've been wearing a robe and Christmas pajamas for the past four days and it's February. I feel my dignity slipping from me along with my sanity. I know, it's not your fault. Just because you've barricaded me and my baby into our home doesn't mean I have to look like I've lost all hope. Sure, I can get dressed, but for what? How long am I supposed to keep up this charade like there's a chance I'll be interacting with other nonrelated adults? I refuse to live a lie. This is me. Take me as I am.
Because as a work-fromhome mom, every winter day is the same day around here. My baby is over it with her toys and has taken a greater interest in destroying my house. The only show that can keep her occupied momentarily is "Sesame Street," and it's gotten so bad, my husband and I just had a deep and meaningful conversation about how gracefully Maria and Gordon have aged over the years.
It's time to start letting me go. Let me and my husband take my baby and dog on a nice walk. Let me burn more than 5 calories. Let my ghostly white skin have a hint of color. Let me dig out my spring clothes so I can immediately regret all that cake I had earlier.
Set me free because I just don't think I love you anymore. It's not you, it's me. No, it's you.
All my best,
Anna Lind Thomas is a humor writer who considers herself a work-from-home mom to daughter Lucy and English bulldog Bruno; wife to Rob Thomas; and founder of HaHas for HooHas. She writes monthly for momaha.com.
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