Thundersleet

We have been pummeled with snow. Rather, with “thundersnow” and “thundersleet,” according to the weatherman reporting last night. Indeed, last night we could barely see the street from our windows. And this morning, Park Slope was a mound of white. The tree branches were each covered with a delicate layer of lacey snow. For a moment, I was happy to be in New York, in the snow.

Approximately three hours later, the snow in the streets and by every curb had turned to ankle-deep gray slush. Determined to get Lucia to work off some energy and have a good nap, I put her in the Ergo and snow-shoed my way to a café, all but ruining my non-water-proof boots. Lucia enjoyed exploring the café. She ate lunch. We trudged home. She was visibly tired in the Ergo. She slept for…forty minutes.

This afternoon, feeling snowbound and knowing I’d need rainboots if I was going to get out at all tomorrow and, oh, in the next three months until spring, I bundled Lucia into the stroller and we headed to Target. Unwise, unwise. My already ruined boots took another hit. And we kept getting stuck in two-foot-high snow piles when we tried to cross the street. I have a monster stroller—huge, monster-truck-caliber wheels—and yet we still got stuck. But people in Park Slope are generally helpful, and we were pulled free each time.

The arduous trip was not worth it. There were no rainboots left. We went to DSW. No rainboots left other than a few random size 10s. But Lucia enjoyed walking around the store, forgetting completely about me as she wandered up and down the aisles. Fortunately, on the way out of the mall, I found some rainboots in a store playing blaringly loud music. Lucia snapped and clapped happily for about ten seconds until she became fussy and annoyed. I changed into the boots right away and set out for home, feeling powerful, daring the puddles to be deeper—deeper—deeper! I literally waded through puddles. There is no way around them, no way at all. We got stuck in a snow pile. We were pulled free. A man suggested adding four-wheel drive to the stroller. I suggested to Andrew he propose to his boss that we move back to California.

I wish I’d known the following truth before agitating to leave California: Anyone who says they love winter is not a parent of a baby. I can see loving winter once again once Lucia is a kid—lots of happy, snowsuited, sledding kids were heading to the park today. But chasing a toddler around to get on socks, shoes, legwarmers, coat, hat, stroller straps, and stroller bunting, and then donning my own boots, scarf, hat, coat, and gloves, and then either trudging through snow with my center of gravity all out of whack from the Ergo OR pushing a stroller through slush lakes and snow mountains, only to then unwrap the bundled Lucia for far too short a time, only to then REWRAP her up while she indulges in writhing, overheated screaming in a public place—it makes me want to take winter and just…just…shake it. Doesn’t it realize baby-raising is hard enough already?