OK, so 40 degrees (or 4.5 degrees Celsius, as I should now be calling it) is not necessarily warm. Two and a half years ago, in California, I would have thought 40 degrees was downright painful. By that point, I had pushed the memories of the 23 winters I spent in Michigan deep into the recesses of mind, fancying myself a warm-weather person.
And here I am, two and a half years later, calling 40 degrees "warm." More importantly, I stood on the balcony in a short-sleeved shirt this evening watching Ninna draw with chalk on the wet, 40 degree driveway without mittens. If any of the Montreal grandmas who walk around with their watchful eyes would have seen this, I would have, at best, gotten the evil eye, and at worst, gotten a lecture.
But the Montreal grandmas don't realize that somehow, this child was made for winter. She spent her summer talking about how she couldn't wait for snow. While I'm rushing the chicks outside after nap to take advantage of one of the last "warm" days, pre-snow, Ninna is fantasizing about building snowmen and climbing six-foot snowbanks.
Little Bojey, somewhat less of a cold weather girl, watches from afar, undergoing those two-year old internal battles--the desire to both be downstairs with the big girls and be upstairs with mama at the same time, the desire to simultaneously be drawing on a wet driveway and cuddling up in a warm house.
And me? Well, I'm having no internal battles. I know I will fear the snow, and I'll freeze for the first few days, but once the Christmas lights start glittering through the flurries and the rosy cheeked chicks start begging to play in the snow, I'll start making the hot chocolate and bundling us up, remembering again how vibrant the cold weather can make us feel.