Reports From The Nursery (Part Fourteen)
By Alexis, In Her Own Words
Let us begin with the undeniable fact that winter, in all its frosty glory, is a season crafted by some capricious cosmic designer who decided the world needed a solid freeze to humble us. God has a wicked sense of humor, and sometimes it comes with rather hard edges, no?
January, in particular feels like the month where the sun takes a vacation and leaves us to fend for ourselves—probably off sipping margaritas somewhere while less favored adults are left scraping car windshields with credit cards (since the fancy window scraper snapped into pieces when faced with an inch of ice).
And yet, here I am—a twenty-month-old girl with the mind of a far more sentient being, at least for now—finding myself utterly captivated by this icy performance. Call it foolishness or curiosity; I call it survival. With style.
Snow, they call it (though I've also heard more... uh..."colorful" descriptions). I'll call it sky confetti—only less festive and more treacherous. Oh, how it falls with such melodramatic flair! Each flake, a tiny, frigid diva pirouetting from the heavens, landing softly on my mittened hand—or, more often, sneakily sliding down the back of my collar. A joke from above, surely. Adults marvel at its pristine whiteness, but I see it as nature’s passive-aggressive way of saying, "Here, cover up your mess. I can't do it all, you know.”
Bundled up like a sentient laundry pile, I waddle into the cold, each layer of clothing a tribute to my mother’s overzealous commitment to ensuring I survive a stiff breeze. Who decided toddlers need to resemble overinflated parade balloons just to survive winter? I can barely bend my knees, yet I’m expected to frolic. Ironically, thy name is outerwear.
I move with all the grace of a starfish in a snow suit, arms splayed, knees locked, and the faint hope that I won't simply topple over like a disgruntled snowman.
And the stroller—oh, the stroller. Once my sleek summer chariot, now a veritable fortress swaddled in layers of blankets so thick, I look like a burrito with a face. Good luck extracting me from that cocoon without a crowbar, or perhaps a firefighter's Jaws of Life.
June’s backyard oasis has transformed into January’s frozen tundra. That sandbox where I built perhaps poorly engineered sandcastles? Now it's an icy crater suitable for moon landings. The garden that once burst with color is now a spiky graveyard of wilted stems. Even the swing set looks dejected, draped in snow like it’s attending a very somber party.
And my kiddie pool? These bleak days, a solid block of regret.
But there are snowmen, those lumpy, frostbitten effigies people cobble together in a collective fit of seasonal madness. Carrot noses, black-button eyes, an old hat if he’s lucky—an aesthetic that shrugs, "We did our best, okay?"
And yet, I adore them. They stand there, mute and dignified, enduring the cold with a stoicism I can only aspire to. (Though, between us, I suspect they’re silently critiquing my fashion choices. If they had mouths, they’d definitely be smirking. And really, if someone stuck a vegetable in my face and called it a nose, I’d be judgy too).
And what of sledding? A pastime that feels like an unregulated amusement park ride—minus the safety protocols and plus the distinct possibility of a face full of ice. I am ceremoniously plopped onto a flimsy plastic death trap, and gravity promptly reminds me who’s boss. Down I go, barreling towards certain doom—trees, fences, the occasional bewildered dog—yet somehow, I emerge giggling, breathless, and demanding, "Again!" Because youth is nothing if not the art of underestimating danger while overestimating one's own indestructibility.
Hot cocoa. Ah, finally, a muscular beverage that understands me! Warm, sweet, and unapologetically unhealthy: perfection that reminds me of heaven. The marshmallows bob on the surface like tiny lifeboats, slowly surrendering to the abyss. I can relate. Adults may sip daintily, but I guzzle the brew with reckless abandon, chocolate mustache and all. It’s a sugary declaration of war against the cold, and I intend to emerge victorious—or at least very sticky.
Frankly, if I’m not wearing half my drink on my face, did I even enjoy it?
But winter isn’t all slapstick comedy. There are quieter moments too—those still evenings when the world seems tucked under a frost-laden comforter. I press my nose against the frosted windowpane, watching the streetlamps cast halos on the snow. The world feels softer, quieter, as if the cold has muted its usual nonsense. Even the trees, skeletal and bare, stand like grumpy old men in bathrobes. I wonder if they resent their nakedness or simply accept it. Ah, to possess that kind of confidence.
Then again, they don’t have to deal with itchy sweaters.
Let’s not sugarcoat frostbite, though. My fingers, despite their mittened armor, are treacherous little icicles. My nose? A leaking faucet.
Adults drone on about winter’s charm, but they aren’t grappling with the betrayal of a frozen sippy cup. Yet, even as my cheeks turn a pre-frostbite crimson and my teeth chatter like squirrels with a Brazil nut, I refuse to surrender. There’s too much mischief left to make, too many snowflakes yet to miss catching on my tongue—which, frankly, seems like an elaborate prank of physics. It’s like the universe giggles every time I miss.
Winter, of course, is one giant metaphor waiting to be unpacked. The bare trees whisper of resilience, the snow speaks of fresh starts, and the biting wind is a cruel tutor in hardship. But my two—metaphors are for people who voluntarily read Shakespeare and pretend to enjoy kale. Still, even I can sense that the world must freeze before it blooms again. And so, I stomp through January with boots too big and a scarf that could double as a parachute, knowing this frosty escapade is merely the opening act for spring.
In the end, winter in January is an exquisite paradox—harsh yet beautiful, merciless yet generous. It invites play while demanding respect. And though my fingers are numb, and my tiny steps resemble tipsy penguins, I navigate this frozen kingdom with the gravity of a pint-sized philosopher and the irreverence of youth.
After all, what is winter but a season that dares us to find warmth in the cold and joy in the starkness?
And I, in my puffy coat and chocolate-smeared grin, accept the challenge with all the seriousness a twenty-month-old can muster—
--which is to say, hardly any at all.
— end —
(EDITOR’S NOTE: Alexis and her musings will return to these pages in future editions.
She insists that it will be sometime after the temperatures get less insane. But her editor bets it will be a lot sooner.)
