We are breaking up. It’s not you … it’s my children. You see, being loud, running fast and creating wreckage as fast, ferocious, and wide-spread as an F5 are a few of their favorite things. And I think you would agree, loud noises and tornadoes are really better suited for the outdoors.
We had a fling once. It started with wanting to feel the crisp air back in October. The leaves, family photo opportunities and all the hoopla for chai-pumpkin-scarves-boots-hoodies everything season passed quickly, followed by the allure of the holidays. You seduced me when those children’s big blue eyes danced of sugarplums and Christmas Barbie and listening to Jingle Bells on repeat everywhere we went. I didn’t even mind repeating the number of days until Christmas 600 times a day for a few short weeks.
You convinced me to spend 65 dollars on something that I killed on purpose for it to shed needles all over my floor – especially when it didn’t get taken down until three weeks after Christmas. And now that I’m still finding those darn things in my rugs, I lust for a Roomba. But it was such a romantic time, so I happily went along with it all.
You were new and exciting and flirtatious with your promises of snowmen to be built, family memories to be made and joy on those little faces every time you’d come around. You had the kids convinced too – they nearly cried every time you started to go away.
Until they were distracted by the next indoor activity for all of their 5-minute attention span.
And then, February hit and things got crazy fast. One morning, I couldn’t take it anymore. I took away the TV, toys, bubbles inside the house (because that’s never been an expectation), the couch (because it is not a jungle gym nor gymnastics bars, a bounce house, or apparently even a place to sit, once I started my threat). I blame you.
I freaked out when my kid didn’t put the princess tattoos in her Valentine’s cards just right. We played Play Doh and drew until the crayons were stubs, but still you wouldn’t go away.
You tried to make it right. And you almost succeeded. I thoroughly enjoyed the peppermint mochas, mashed potatoes my grandma makes with a full stick of butter and Valentine’s chocolates, but when the Samoas overtook my cabinet, I’d had enough. I went on a binge and hid everything from the sticky fingers who knew what cabinet to stand on to reach for the mint truffle, candy cane stripe and raspberry love Hershey’s kisses that I took of the store’s hands at the bulk rate of half price.
I know what you’re thinking, but I’m not one of those people with a bad memory who will be finding smooshed chocolates and wrappers in my underwear drawer for years to come. Nope, turns out the freezer is the perfect hiding spot (especially the top shelf) and Thin Mints taste even better when frozen. ‘No dessert week’ was more or less a loose term anyways for Mommy every time I had to ‘take out the trash,’ ‘feed the dog,’ or ‘check on something’.
Now there’s somebody new. I’ve just seen a glimpse of him once or twice. He brings warmth to my cheeks, and I can’t wait to feel the full effect of his glorious burning love. He doesn’t control what I wear or when I can go out. He lets me do things like throw whatever I can find or grow on the grill instead of planning 47 ways to fail at producing something edible from my crockpot. It turns out Pinterest lies. I even shave my legs when he comes around.
It’s time to go away. Admit defeat. Quit belittling me at my door, half desperate to hang on for the sake of the past. It’s over, Winter. I’ll break it to the children and tell them about their new home. A place of sanity for us all. Outside!