Tuesday, 5 January 2016

Goddamit, New Year. Gimme a break.

Happy New Year!  And sincere apologies if you, too, are in the process of readjusting to the throes of Real Life.  

Having 10 days of vacation during the Christmas holidays is a blessing and a curse.  What we actually need is 10 days off beforehand to prepare all the things (Sorry Gram, I haven’t mailed your gift yet but I still love you.), and then 10 days off afterward to recover.  

If you’re like me, you run yourself ragged before and during Christmas (Sure, let’s make lunch for 15 people on Boxing Day.), and then spend the remaining holiday sitting in your pajamas eating Lindt chocolates and watching Downton Abbey.  

Until.  

Until the return to Real Life, where all of a sudden it snows two feet, and shifts from a balmy, non-winter 16 degrees on Christmas Eve, to a painful, colder-than-a-witch’s-titty minus 30 degrees the Monday I return to work.  

This is all miserable for most people, I’d venture.  For me, add a toddler who needs to wear nine layers of wool and can’t zip up her own snowsuit because her giant mittens turn her arms into little, useless, puffy snowman sticks floating off the side of her body.  Plus:  A tiny human growing increasingly cumbersome in my abdomen, making it near impossible to bend, sit, stand, breathe, or otherwise function.  

It’s all a bit much.  

Then today happened.  Still minus 30 degrees, still a floating arm toddler, still a breathless mess, and – wait for it – stuck in a snowbank.  

Driving away from daycare, I misjudged (read: didn’t look at) the width of the poorly-ploughed residential street and drove into a pile of snow/ice boulders and couldn’t move an inch.  I don’t know if you’ve ever floored your car in reverse, but if you’re stuck, nothing happens except a big cloud of exhaust.  

The whole situation left me hunched over the front wheel, seven months pregnant, sad and tiny yellow shovel in hand, ridiculous pashmina scarf in my face, hacking away at the bottom of my already demolished bumper.  At minus 30.  With the gas light on - because of course it was.  

Fifteen minutes and several cursey rants later, I managed to rock my car free and make it to a gas station in time to pump 17 dollars’ worth of over-priced gas at a freezing, windy gas station.   

I’ll take my year on maternity leave with no sleep and a screaming baby now, thanks.