I became a mother in January. My mother drove me through the freezing dark night, sometime between midnight and dawn, to the hospital, my doula following in her own car behind. My labor, strong and painful and many hours old, seemed to suspend itself for the duration of the drive, so worried was I that my mom, driving an unfamiliar car through an unfamiliar city, would lose the way. Hours later, she held one side of me and the doula the other, straining with me as the nurse instructed: “Push. Push.”

My mom drove us home again two days later through even more frigid temperatures, the Honda’s heater blasting hot air at the baby and I in the backseat, buffeted by the unreality of the outside world.

We’d had a joyful birth, and the baby was a happy, hearty soul, but I still don’t recommend January as the best time to have a baby, particularly a first baby in a temporary city. Within days my mom had climbed aboard a plane and flown away, and it was just Claire and I, fairly alone, our first days and our first winter, together.

January is supposed to be about renewal, reflection, a fresh start. Frankly, I’m not in the mood. It’s cold. There are a lot of mittens and boots to put on and take off, a lot of wet spots on the rug waiting for an unwary foot. I’m not grumpy, necessarily, about January, but I’m definitely hunkered down, slogging through, one foot in front of the other. It is dark when I go to work, dark before dinner, and all of the windows and doors let drafts of winter into my old house. And I’m expected to be dieting right now??

And yet. Winter, January, is such a necessary phase in life. Cold dark days to make me appreciate the long warm ones. Days with fewer friends, less family, far fewer social activities. Days to think, and read, and talk, and bundle.

I am one of four generations, and the only one who suffers through winter any more. My grandmother, nearly 90, has hunkered into her senior’s residence far north of me, and will not go outside until spring. Home-bound at the best of times despite loving entreaties, she absolutely refuses to venture into the snow. She’ll look outside, and listen and watch weather updates, but winter barely touches her now. Her daughter, my mother, has long since abandoned the Canadian winter for the American snowbird existence in Arizona or Florida, departing the day after Christmas and returning only when the snow is gone and the ground dry again. The fourth generation, my daughters, suffer not at all during winter – they love the snow, love to skate and sled, love snowball fights and snow angels. Even the baby, enraged by the tedious process of being dressed, squeals happily once released outside, every tumble and slip cushioned by down and fleece and snow.

It is only me, the third generation, who feels the burden of winter, I think. The endless wet socks and lost mittens, slush-encrusted stroller and ice-covered car. Three pairs of boots to put on before I leave the house. And again, it sounds like I’m grumpy, doesn’t it? But I’m not. Not really. January, to me, is something about strength. And I am a strong woman. Winter is about caring, for other people and myself, who would suffer if I didn’t take care, if I didn’t drive carefully over black ice, bundle heavily before winter walks, shovel out driveways and walkways, tuck mittens well into sleeves.

It was some 35 years ago now, but I can still remember my mom tucking in my mittens. We used to snowmobile for hours and fish through holes cut in the ice, and so warm clothes and care were key. In frigid temperatures, time after time, she’d pull her own mittens off to warm our hands, even tucking our fingers next to her body, in her snowsuit, when they were too red and frozen to endure. And then, once warmed, she’d hold out our leather mittens and we’d push deeply into them, waiting while her own frozen fingers tucked cuff into cuff so no drafts could get through. And I remember, even then, wondering how she didn’t get cold, with no one to tuck her mittens in. Once she took care of us, she’d pull on her own mittens and move to the next task, cuffs untucked. Even as a child, that puzzled me, how she could do without something we clearly needed.

I’m the one tucking the mittens now. My trick is to put the mittens on before the jacket, so tiny bundled hands have to be pushed through sleeves, emerging very well tucked with little chance of coming off. But I admit impatience with thumbs. It’s not that I don’t value the opposable thumb, it is just that on the toddler, it seems occasionally too much to ask. But then I remember my mother, and our well-tucked mittens, and I try again. “Push, push,” I say. And she pushes, thumb into one spot and fingers into another, and I can sit back on my heels in triumph. And push her out the door, into winter, quickly, before the light fades and the frigid dark forces us in again.

This was originally published on 1/28/12.