Now, before I lose all credibility and you take me for some weak-kneed weather-whiner, let me explain. Our winter can start as early as October, and we will see neither grass nor sun till April’s almost done. The snow, the cold, the gray sky that never ends… they get to you.

The first snowfall is delightful. The children awaken and look out the windows with wide-eyed wonder, their puffs of breath forming condensation on the glass. And even I, coldhearted snow-hater that I am, can pause to admire the beauty of our winter wonderland.

But then, reality sets in and wonder fades, because we have to clean the car. Then come numb fingers, biting wind, and cold, wet toes in allegedly waterproof boots. There are mornings when the snow comes past my knees. There are mornings when my car door is frozen shut. There are mornings when my driveway is transformed into an ice-skating rink, and I only realize this wonderful fact when I find myself suddenly transformed into a figure skater who pirouettes ungracefully to the ground.

My first winter in the Midwest, the snow started in October. We had two snow days that year, but not from snow. No, not us rugged, hardy Midwesterners. A little (read: a foot of) snow never stopped us from carpool! The schools closed that year because of the freezing temperatures. The thermometer had gone so far below zero that it was deemed unsafe to be outside. Unsafe. From the cold. A nice, cheerful Midwest welcome.

It’s improved slightly since that first winter. But every year, when the snow begins to melt toward winter’s end and I catch a glimpse of green grass beneath the sea of endless white, I tell myself, Next year will be different. Next year, we’re moving to Florida. And I mean it. But then, a magical spring arrives in full. I forget about the cold, the gray skies, the perpetually frozen toes. Summer comes next, and it’s like I forget that winter ever existed.

Except then comes autumn. It’s so, so beautiful. We have a bush outside our house that turns from green to gold to cranberry, and I can’t take my eyes off it. The wind carries a crispness, the sun is warm and golden, and if I focus on the beauty of it all, I might be able to ignore what’s coming.

But my children, bless their winter-loving hearts, will not let their mother forget. They don’t appreciate autumn for what it is, only what it signifies. Winter is coming!

Dun-dun-dunnnn.

They’ve got my husband, too. He talks about winter tires with a gleam of excitement in his eye. He has plans to take my kids sledding on Sundays. They love the cold, my Robert Frostians. And me? I shiver.

In high school, my teacher once shared a mashal with us: She was flying out-of-state during the winter. As her plane lifted off the runway and broke through the never-ending thick, gray clouds, she was surrounded by brilliant, dazzling sunlight. “It feels like we’re in winter, that it’s never going to end, but just remember, girls — there’s a sun up there.” I think about her words a lot when winter comes ’round and I haven’t seen the sun in over three months. There’s a sun up there!

I know, I know. It’s not all bad, even in the darkness. There are cozy nights and mornings in fuzzy fleece pajamas. There are snowballs and snowmen and (warm!) schnitzel with noodles. There’s hot cocoa for when your fingers get cold, there’s hot cocoa for when you’re feeling sad, and there’s hot cocoa for the rest of the time, too. There are even Chanukah and Purim to look forward to. And — I know — it’s only three months. Sometimes four. Or five.

But there’s a sense of foreboding within me. Winter is a-comin’. I need to prepare. Bring out the coats, the boots, the warm woolen mittens. Bring out the cozy slippers and oversized sweatshirts. Like a bear preparing for hibernation, this mama is getting ready.

One cup of hot cocoa at a time.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 975)