Winter Weather Meltdown

-25 degrees this morning. No wind. In the Honda, the gear shift and steering wheel were stiff, breakable. Frost frayed across the windshield, frost like dandruff across my down coat and corduroyed knees, frost sprinkled across the rear view mirror.

At the end of the street, a truck left a trail of exhaust that hung in the air long after the truck itself disappeared. At the coffee shop, the cold was a dry-ice mist around the boots of all who entered. At home, on the Saran around the back door frame, the cold left an icy column of dashes and dots, winter's DNA.

You are combating the cold with sleep. Your morning nap is approaching three hours now. Zippered into a blue fleece sleep sack, you snooze with a blue star below your chin.

On Christmas Eve, you saw masterpieces from the Louvre: a hand-tooled leather box, a gold tiara, a painting of Jesus carrying the cross. Outside the masterpiece exhibit, you liked the four red, white, and blue letter prints ("L" "O" "V" "E") and the black and white photos, wall sized, of mountain climbers scaling waterfalls of ice. You also enjoyed the Native American textiles: beaded bags and ceremonial moccasins; vests and pants made of soft fur and animal hide.

The truth is that you are cranky and I am cranky. As I put you into the car seat at Peter and Ricki's, you started to scream. "Please stop crying, Thisbe, please stop," I begged and then I started to cry too, the wear of foreign Pack N Plays and metal detectors and interrupted sleep have finally rubbed us raw, the both of us.

When I started to cry, you suddenly quieted, just stared at me from underneath your pink knit hat, blue eyes wide, and watched. Maybe there is a law that says we cannot both cry at the same time. My friend Kristine likes to tell the story of her her very first breakdown. Her husband was away for three days and her six-week-old son would not sleep for more than 45 minutes at a stretch. As she held him, sobbing, one night, she looked down into his lovely face and said "I just don't know if I can do this anymore." And at that moment he smiled his very first smile.

Thisbe, today I imagine you and I as a wrestling team. We are called the Winter Weather Meltdown. My ring name is Blizzard and yours is Ice. We wear silver leotards and glittery blue capes. Your grandmother has painted snowflakes around our eyes. Our teeth chatter incessantly, as a sign of our power; our earlobes have permanent frostbite. I like our boots the best, white leather with fringe running up the back.

The mat is white. The sun is relegated to a single seat. The crowd roars.

We pretend it is not the wind.