Winter Kids

by Becca Brin Manlove

Labor Day. Four-year-old Ailish (long A-lish) floated cross-legged on a floatie. Her mom, my daughter Celin (suhLINN), swam and tried to coax Ailish into the water. I’d watched the warmth rise from the lake on too many chilly mornings. I was grateful to sit with twoyear-old Sive (rhymes with five) as she napped on the pontoon boat.

When twelve-year-old Katy and fourteen-year-old Molly ran over from next door, Ailish bounced with so much excitement on her floatie she nearly swamped it. The Big Girls’ long legs flashed down the dock. Katy leapt in, but Molly stopped short. Celin and Katy lied about the temperature of the water while Ailish, from her mostly-dry perch on a floatie, cajoled Molly to jump in.

Katy found the best argument, “Come on Molly. It’s the last day of summer!” Molly screamed as she leapt in.

The Last Day of Summer. They were going back to school the next day.

Even after we all moved to the sunwarmed deck, The Last Day of Summer was what we talked about. It carried tones of both lament and excitement. Ailish drew me aside. “Will it snow tomorrow?”

“Oh, thank goodness, no!”

Tears rose in her sage-green eyes. Too late I remembered that snow is a delight, not a menace, in her four-yearold heart. If it’s too cold to swim, then she wants to be playing in snow.

A few days later, Sive pointed to her cheek, “Me Baby” then grabbed for my phone. She loves to see pictures of herself as a baby. Scrolling back, I found a video of her playing in the yard last spring, just after her second birthday. She was banging the tail of a plastic pink flamingo on the ground and galloping. Watching the video, she squealed to her sister, “Look, She-she, snow!” Late April and significant banks of snow still lingered.

The day I took that video, Ailish was in the hospital with complications after appendicitis surgery. Celin and her husband, Sean, were with Ailish in Duluth while I stayed with Sive at their home in the woods near Babbitt. The soft spring air, the joy of playing outside with my tiny charge, the freedom from winter layers was all in sharp contrast to our fear for Ailish’s health and our longing to be together.

But on this September day months later, our healthy, happy girls giggled, watching the video of Sive in spring. And they both yearned for the snow in the background.

I can get into such a funk thinking about winter. The cold, the shoveling, shoveling, shoveling, the short days, the cold, wriggling myself and the girls into layers and layers, the cold. Last winter, one of the most frustrating challenges was Sive the toddler’s resistance to wearing her mittens.

Where is the other mitten? Oh no, this pair is damp. Where is the other pair? Oh no, these are your sister’s. Where is your thumb? It goes in this tiny pocket. Oh, PLEASE, don’t pull it off before I can get your arm inside your snowsuit. Do you want to eat snow? Remember how cold it is? Your mittens will keep your hands warm. Hard to convince her of that when her hands were hot from the struggle. All this went on, while the three-year-old big sister fussed for help finding her layers, fussed for help getting into them, and cried at the door because she was too hot. Add in two dogs who were also anxious to get out, knocking over the girls and scrambling anything laid out on the floor. Some of the tantrums were mine.

But why do I focus on this? This year, the four-year-old and dogs can be let out the door while the two-year-old expertly slips her thumbs into thumb pockets and helps slide her arms and legs into the right parts of her snowsuit. She will even pull on her own boots. I’m writing this in

September. This hasn’t happened yet. Mittens, including mine, are sure to go missing or be damp. The wrong hat will be found. We’ll have forgotten to do tactical wees and someone’s layers will have to come off. You know the drill. And yet...

Their anticipation of snow lifts my funk. Yes, the fall colors are spinning to the ground, piling up in maroon and gold drifts. Foggy mornings waft fishy, softwater scents that will soon be locked under ice. I can linger with the gifts of this ephemeral season and then scroll through images in my phone, finding proof that we will find joy in winter.

Snowbanks will become mountains to ascend, good cover during hide and seek games, and slides. A lot of snow will be consumed. This year, maybe, Sive will show discernment about where she scoops it up. Lellow is a color she identifies now, and she is the one who alerts me to the poop piles. I fetch the shovel and she points to the pile the way Budgie points grouse.

Thirty years ago, my own kids reminded me of the joys of winter. We stood and took in the deep silence of winter, blew smoke rings with our breath, and then broke into giggles at some weird raven squawk. Even hauling firewood became a game with them perched like elves on top of the wood or chasing the sled with snowballs. When record-setting cold brightened the stars and made trees pop like firecrackers, Mike, their dad, boiled a pot of water. The kids and I stood at the long window and watched as he tossed it into the air, hot water becoming instant steam and ice.

Yes, getting two tinies into snowsuits, mittens, hats, and boots was the same frustration. Sometimes the tantrums were mine, then, too. But once we were outside, I cherished rosy cheeks and noses, eyes bright with mischief and joy, giggles as I pulled a sled or chased them down the driveway.

We made up our game Ding Dong. For a long time I was the best at it, since I was taller. I’d pull down a snow-laden branch and yell “Ding Dong!” The kids would scramble away before I let go the branch and it flung snow onto hats and into faces. The puller almost always got the worst of it. Oh, it seemed just a moment before our son, Joe, and then Celin could reach higher and run away faster.

Skiing was not their favorite sport but it was their Dad’s and mine. We taught them to balance and then stride forward on cross country skis. We had only a couple of winters with each kid when we stepped slowly beside them on the flats.

Helping with winter chores can be fun and keeps kids warm.

We towed them uphill while they held the grip end of a ski pole, or we waddled behind our tiny skiers, hands under their shoulders. Those winters melted too quickly. Soon we were left behind as they flew down the trail. Sometimes I remembered to laugh at their impatience when they waited for me to catch up.

This coming winter, Ailish may still need some assistance on hills, but she’s old enough now for MYSL (Minnesota Youth Ski League) where she’ll be skiing and competing with her buddy, Carter. Sive is two years younger but she isn’t one to be left behind. Celin, Sean, and I all leave skis in a rack outside their door. Tiny skis will join the long ones this winter. The girls love racing Daddy on runs and bikes. Skiing won’t be any different.

Their short skis will morph suddenly into skis longer than mine. Maybe they’ll be helping me up hills by then.

Winter might be our more challenging season here. And it seems the longest, always. But it is ephemeral. And when we know something won’t last forever—the swimming of summer, the color wheel of fall, the Juneberry scent of spring, snuggles with a loved one, the joyful perspective of a tiny person—we cherish that moment. We cherish life.

My winter hope for me and for you is two dry mittens that stay found and the ability to experience falling snow with the heart of a child.

Read more essays by Becca at her blog, Love With Roots and in her book, Hauling Water.