Reflections on taking your toddler out in the snow
Now that I'm a parent and working from home, the novelty of a snowstorm is pretty much lost on me. The cold, the dampness, the dragging in of all sorts of leaves and dirty and salt onto my nice clean floors—not to mention the inevitable closure of kiddo's school—just don't give you that magic feeling anymore.
Still, it's hard not to feel a sense of wonder watching big fat flakes wind their way to the ground, landing without a sound on the thick layer of snow that's muted the normal bustle of the neighborhood. And it's hard not to get excited about watching your (almost) brand-new human start to really understand snow for the first time.
The problem? Dressing a toddler to play in the snow is an ordeal you don't fully fathom the depth of until you're kneeling on the floor, trying to wedge your 2-year-old's foot into a boot while he screams and begs you to stop—but you keep going because dammit you want that f'ing picture for the memory book.
Here's a play-by-play of what that looks like:
Step One: The snow pants
Remember those bulky things with the bib and the suspenders that you wore as a kid? The ones that were a b*tch to put on and even more of a b*tch to take off? Yeah, technology hasn't advanced those much in the past three decades. If you recall how hard it was to put these on yourself, imagine what it's like to do it to a being that can't sit still for more than two seconds and insists on doing things themselves especially when it's a task they can't actually do themselves.
Step Two: The snow boots
There's just no good way to put these on. Kids this young just don't understand the need to put your foot into extreme plantar flexion to slip your foot down the tall ankle part. So you're feeling for their foot through the layers of faux fur, cotton, nylon, and plastic, trying to make progress but also trying not to hurt them. Is the foot in? Is it in now? You can't tell. He's screaming. You're desperate. So you grab a pair of scissors and literally cut the boot shaft open so you can see where the foot is. Does it threaten to defeat the purpose of keeping the feet dry? Yes. Does it get you from point A to point B? Also, yes.
Step Three: The hat
The average mid-Atlantic mom probably has at least five different winter hats for their toddler. They do despite the fact the odds of having five snow days in any given winter are fairly low. The only thing less likely? Your kid keeping the hat on their head. If it doesn't have a strap or tie under the chin, forget it—the hat will be off their head and thrown to the floor before you even have a chance to fit it over their ears.
Step Four: The jacket
He wants the yellow jacket. The yellow jacket is not waterproof. He wants the red jacket. The red jacket is not waterproof. You explain that, no, the Mickey jacket is his snow jacket, and this is the jacket he will wear. He implodes. You manage to corral his thrashing arms into the sleeves of the jacket but—uh oh—the jacket won't close. His snowpants-expanded torso is too big. You pull and squeeze and curse ("Mommy said a bad word, don't repeat what mommy just said!") and somehow manage to pull the zipper from bottom to top. The seams look about to burst. You pray they don't.
Step Five: The mittens
This is like the shoe: toddlers just don't get that their thumb is supposed to go in the little slot and the other four fingers go in the big one. So they put all five fingers in the big one, and they proceed to cry profusely because for the first time they realize the value of an opposable thumb. But they also don't want to help you navigate that thumb into the right place, and there are no words you can use to help them understand how to get it there. You shove the wrist band up their arm and hope for the best.
OK, you've made it: He's dressed. He looks like a miniature, colorful Stay-Puft marshmallow man, but he's insulated and (mostly) waterproofed. He's also wailing.
You're sure he'll stop as soon as he's out in that white fluffy stuff he's been watching through the window. You'll make snow angels, build a snowman, pull him in a little sled around the block, his giggles piercing the flurry-speckled air as you take at least 50 photos and a dozen videos to show off on Instagram the second he goes down for a nap (#snowday #snowbaby).
Back to reality: You realize those giggles are not giggles but screeches. He hasn't taken a single step into the snow because he's either (a) terrified, (b) incapable of moving on his own because of the 10 pounds of extra gear he's not used to wearing, or (c) both.
So you hold up a mittenful of snow in front of his face, assuring him "It's snow! It's fun! You'll like it!" You're speaking in a high-pitched voice you haven't used since you were trying to cajole him into walking. You furiously attempt to roll a base for a snowman for the first time in two decades. You pick him up and plop him in the plastic sled, pulling him slowly around the yard, explaining "Isn't this fun? It's just like your wagon!"
But nothing works. He's still screaming. And you're 85% sure at least one neighbor has called child protective services to report you. So you give up. You snap a few photos and hope in at least one he doesn't look like a torture victim. You trudge back inside, carrying your unwieldy toddler, defeated.
Total time to get dressed for snow: 20 minutes
Total time actually out in the snow: <5 minutes
Taking off the snow gear is blessedly faster than putting it on. Soaking wet articles of clothing are strewn in his wake as he runs to the couch. His screaming ebbs to a staccato whine as you cover him with a blanket. You give him a cupful of M&Ms as a peace offering and throw on an episode of Mickey's Roadster Racers (which you loathe) because you're feeling that guilty about the last half-hour's trauma.
He's content now, so you go back to the kitchen and make some hot chocolate for yourself. You add a small (OK big) pour of Bailey's into the cup, stirring it into the milk. You feel your blood pressure finally start to settle. Then you reach of your phone, tap the photos app, and see what you've got. And as you scroll through the perfectly imperfect gallery, you realize: It was worth it.