Post traumatic stress disorder of the snow variety

Kids are supposed to love winter and snow. Think about it! Snow angels! Sledding! Christmas! Snowmen! Snowball fights! Huzzah!

The other day Jonas and I got on the lamentable topic of winter. Sadie overheard us, and her eyes grew big and watery.

"Oh NO!" she said. "Winter is coming and there is gonna be SNOW on the ground! I won't be able to ride my tricycle in the park because there will be SNOW!" You'd think she was talking about chest-deep blood and gore.

Sadie's only memory of snow is of the traumatic twelve foot variety. Snow that is too deep to even fathom playing in.

I think it was July when someone on the radio said the word 'snow' and it filled me with dread. Last winter was still too fresh in my memory for that to bounce off me. Usually by September I'm warming up to the idea of winter fun. But last year? Man, 'winter fun' was a total fucking oxymoron.

I still get nervous making left turns. Last winter, with the twelve-foot snow banks, it was a leap of faith that there was no oncoming traffic. You just sort of had to shut your eyes and hope for the best.

Forecast after forecast called for huge amounts of snowfall. By January we were all laughing about it, asking how it was possible. By February nobody was so much as cracking a smile. By March we had lost all hope and made our peace with the fact that we would never see grass again.

Summer did come, but it came abruptly. One Monday in late April, we were still trudging through thigh-deep snow. By Friday, the park was crawling with kids in t-shirts, not a flake of snow in sight.

Summer found us gasping for warmth and fresh air. And last winter was so suffocating, that we're still trying to catch our breath. And the mere mention of the word 'snow' is enough to take it away entirely.