Little Footprints in the Snow

One time, somewhere, I heard that people are partial to the weather of their birthday month.  Now, first  of all, I think this shows what a swiss-cheese type of memory I have, since I don't remember anything specific about that fact theory urban legend.  Also, it has to be basically a crock.  February, for example, is rather different climate-wise in Michigan and Hawaii.

Yet, my born-in-August self loathes the cold and the winter and the snow, and my darling-born-in-February snow angel is never cold and gets all giddy when she can make "little footprints in the snow!!" 

Bundled into a warm coat - hat, scarf, and gloves keeping her warm - she insists on Crocs, and I give in, knowing the car is feet from our back door.  I hurry Dylan to his waiting car seat, hurry to pull off the puffy coat, to buckle him in, to start the car, hurry to press the button to heat my seat.  Calling for her, I shake my fingers and wonder how I can manage to drag around a diaper bag the size of a small Brinks truck yet don't have gloves when I need them.

She's prancing around, fascinated by her own footprints, and my immediate response is to scoop her into the car and settle into the almost warm air blasting from the vents.  Thankfully, I stop myself, in spite of my chapped fingers and her barely covered feet. 

Because she is laughing and smiling and leaving her mark on the snow that will likely melt by the end of the day.  The cold bites for another moment, reminding me that the days and weeks and months can melt away in the same way, hurried into cars and houses and schedules and errands.  So I fight the urge to worry about where we're supposed to be five minutes ago and let her amazement circle me warmly, like her breath on my cheek a few minutes later when she leans in for a quick kiss.

I need a warmer coat.