Winter Memory
By Eunie Guyre
My living room blinds are closed and I’m all cozied in, intermittently reading a magazine and watching Prime Time.
When the program ends, I walk over to the slider to see if the snow has begun.
Warm and peaceful in my third-floor garden condo, I stand enjoying the beauty of the night. A light snow is falling,
covering the still-sledable hill sloping down to the frozen pond. Smiling, I recall a winter from years ago. The memory
of first-time motherhood is so vivid, I am instantly swept back to one of the special moments my little son Bobby and I
shared.
Greeting that snow-covered Connecticut morning with happy anticipation, I part the curtain from my bedroom window
to take in the crisp March morning. It is early and my husband and little boy are still asleep. Unlike the previous
winter, when my baby experienced snow for the first time from the vantage point of my arms; he will now feel and
hear the crunch of the snow under his boots. My growing-up boy is a toddler this year. This morning, he and I will
welcome another new experience together.
Today will be special. Bobby and I will make tracks in the fresh, untouched snow. We’ll lie on the fluffy clouds, fly
there with our winged arms, standing to inspect our snow angels. We’ll pack a snowball and roll it until a snowman
appears. I have already set out the beach pail and block maker by the kitchen door. The camera is also waiting to
capture his reaction to this first-time experience. A great adventure awaits us in our backyard.
Feeling like a child myself, anticipating a never-before experience with a new playmate, I try not to appear too eager.
The urge to rush my little guy through his breakfast soon passes. I pull on my snow pants and woolly socks while
Bobby finishes his oatmeal.
Breakfast over, hands and face washed, we enter his bedroom where the clothes I laid out the night before are piled
in the corner.
Kneeling on the blue carpet, I remove his pajamas and pick the big-boy pants from the top of the pile. As he holds
onto my shoulders, he steps into them. Each foot then slides down into a pair of long john legs. Next, he steps into
his plaid flannel-lined blue jeans. The tops of his heavy white socks are tucked underneath the legs of his pants.
Now, the long-sleeved undershirt and turtleneck are pulled over his blond head. Hems are well secured under the
waistband and over his belly.
The mountain of clothing is now molehill height when I pick up his snow pants. Straps of his blue nylon pants are
adjusted over his shoulders and the elastic loops fitted under his feet. Another pair of socks is pulled on, as little
wool sock tops hug the outsides of the leggings. I brush the static electricity his sweater has made on its way overt
his head from the soft baby hair.
Our twenty-minute ritual nearly done, we are almost ready. I wiggle his boots over his double-socked feet. I’m happy
he is still able to move his toes. Helping to push his arms into the jacket sleeves and zipping him in, I reach for the
mittens and attach them by shiny silver clips hanging from elastics on knit cuffs of the jacket sleeves.
This final touch makes me realize how much he has grown in a year. No more thumbless little mittens on strings for
this guy. Red knitted cap firmly in place, hood tied and hands planted into the mittens, we are almost ready.
I reach for my own jacket, as Bobby, barely able to navigate in all his clothes, waddles towards the back door. The
sight of him is both pathetic and comical. It is a scene being replayed from the classic movie, “A Christmas Story”,
where another Mom dressed her son for winter exploration.
Before putting on my own mittens, I wrap a scarf around the neck of my now almost invisible child. His big, brown
eyes are the only recognizable part of him. When he turns his head towards me, his face disappears, as his hood
remains stationery. For a
moment, he reminds me of a doll I had when I was a little girl. She had a knob on top of her head. You turned the
knob until a different face, baring a new expression, was revealed.
Slinging the camera strap over my shoulder, eager to explore the possibilities awaiting us, my big boy turns to me,
and, cocking his head to the side, earnestly announces, “Mommy, I have to go potty.”
By Eunie Guyre
My living room blinds are closed and I’m all cozied in, intermittently reading a magazine and watching Prime Time.
When the program ends, I walk over to the slider to see if the snow has begun.
Warm and peaceful in my third-floor garden condo, I stand enjoying the beauty of the night. A light snow is falling,
covering the still-sledable hill sloping down to the frozen pond. Smiling, I recall a winter from years ago. The memory
of first-time motherhood is so vivid, I am instantly swept back to one of the special moments my little son Bobby and I
shared.
Greeting that snow-covered Connecticut morning with happy anticipation, I part the curtain from my bedroom window
to take in the crisp March morning. It is early and my husband and little boy are still asleep. Unlike the previous
winter, when my baby experienced snow for the first time from the vantage point of my arms; he will now feel and
hear the crunch of the snow under his boots. My growing-up boy is a toddler this year. This morning, he and I will
welcome another new experience together.
Today will be special. Bobby and I will make tracks in the fresh, untouched snow. We’ll lie on the fluffy clouds, fly
there with our winged arms, standing to inspect our snow angels. We’ll pack a snowball and roll it until a snowman
appears. I have already set out the beach pail and block maker by the kitchen door. The camera is also waiting to
capture his reaction to this first-time experience. A great adventure awaits us in our backyard.
Feeling like a child myself, anticipating a never-before experience with a new playmate, I try not to appear too eager.
The urge to rush my little guy through his breakfast soon passes. I pull on my snow pants and woolly socks while
Bobby finishes his oatmeal.
Breakfast over, hands and face washed, we enter his bedroom where the clothes I laid out the night before are piled
in the corner.
Kneeling on the blue carpet, I remove his pajamas and pick the big-boy pants from the top of the pile. As he holds
onto my shoulders, he steps into them. Each foot then slides down into a pair of long john legs. Next, he steps into
his plaid flannel-lined blue jeans. The tops of his heavy white socks are tucked underneath the legs of his pants.
Now, the long-sleeved undershirt and turtleneck are pulled over his blond head. Hems are well secured under the
waistband and over his belly.
The mountain of clothing is now molehill height when I pick up his snow pants. Straps of his blue nylon pants are
adjusted over his shoulders and the elastic loops fitted under his feet. Another pair of socks is pulled on, as little
wool sock tops hug the outsides of the leggings. I brush the static electricity his sweater has made on its way overt
his head from the soft baby hair.
Our twenty-minute ritual nearly done, we are almost ready. I wiggle his boots over his double-socked feet. I’m happy
he is still able to move his toes. Helping to push his arms into the jacket sleeves and zipping him in, I reach for the
mittens and attach them by shiny silver clips hanging from elastics on knit cuffs of the jacket sleeves.
This final touch makes me realize how much he has grown in a year. No more thumbless little mittens on strings for
this guy. Red knitted cap firmly in place, hood tied and hands planted into the mittens, we are almost ready.
I reach for my own jacket, as Bobby, barely able to navigate in all his clothes, waddles towards the back door. The
sight of him is both pathetic and comical. It is a scene being replayed from the classic movie, “A Christmas Story”,
where another Mom dressed her son for winter exploration.
Before putting on my own mittens, I wrap a scarf around the neck of my now almost invisible child. His big, brown
eyes are the only recognizable part of him. When he turns his head towards me, his face disappears, as his hood
remains stationery. For a
moment, he reminds me of a doll I had when I was a little girl. She had a knob on top of her head. You turned the
knob until a different face, baring a new expression, was revealed.
Slinging the camera strap over my shoulder, eager to explore the possibilities awaiting us, my big boy turns to me,
and, cocking his head to the side, earnestly announces, “Mommy, I have to go potty.”
New Hampshire Writers Essays
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