The trials of an Indian mother when it snows

Forcing a rushed breakfast down the throats of my daughters and rushing them out of the door on school mornings is bad enough on good days.  The extra work required in winter can sometimes push me over the edge.

Kids implore me to take them in the car this morning as roads are too full of snow and ice.  I have 10 minutes to get them to school - a 6 minute bike ride on a good day.  And then 7 minutes to get to the station for my train to work.  In normal weather, I’ve got this routine down pat.

But this is winter.  And these days my day goes something like this:

As we’re heading out the door, check that older daughter isn’t just wearing a strappy cotton top under her parka (she’s a slave to fashion and winter mornings usually start with a clash between her fashion sensibility Vs my mother’s sensible fashion).

Yell out instructions to kids to get their scarves, hats and gloves on and order them out to clean the snow off the car windows.  Just locked the front door - all three locks - when I see that youngest daughter hasn’t taken her gloves, despite my warnings.  She’s making snowballs from the snow she’s scooping from the car bonnet - the windows remain as snow covered as ever.  Notice the alarming state of her little fingers so hurry to unlock the front door - all three locks - to grab her gloves and threaten/cajole her into putting them on.

Lock the front door, but realize I lost my gloves while searching for hers, so have to unlock door, re-enter, find gloves and lock door again.   I bray at the kids to stop having such a good time in the snow and get those windows cleared.

Reach car to find out that the door is frozen into place and won’t budge.  I try to breathe on the edges before realizing the fruitlessness of the endeavour. Realize we’re going to have to risk the bikes after all.  Open the front door to exchange car keys for everyone’s bike keys.  Lock door while kids are cleaning the snow off the saddles and handlebars.  Bike locks are frozen.

Sigh.

Unlock the front door to rush to kitchen to heat a bike lock key on the stove - rush out while its still hot and insert into bike lock.  It works.  Have to do this for two bikes.  One of the kid’s bikes had to be abandoned somewhere else a few days ago and I don’t dare take a kid on the back of my bike on this road.

“Don’t worry mum, I’ll run.  It’s good for my muscles” says plucky younger daughter.

Lock door again and finally set off. But have to dismount from bike as soon as I get on because the small roads around my house are a skating rinks skirted with stiffening peaks of dirty snow. We walk the bikes to the main road that’s been salted and is semi negotiable.

Elder daughter and me ride cautiously towards the school, younger daughter running on footpath alongside us, easily overtaking our speed.  Hands are frozen with cold and tension on the handlebars.  It’s like riding on frozen mud that’s been churned up by tyre tracks.  Call out occasionally to make sure both daughters haven’t disappeared into a snowdrift.

We reach school in twice the time it take us normally. Kiss cold rosy cheeks and push them into the building - no time for the usual cosy goodbyes in the classroom.

Negotiate my way along the smaller icy streets, choosing the long way to the station because at least it follows the main roads that have been salted.  Last year my local council, like most in Holland, ran out of salt so it was virtually impossible to emerge from your house unless you were a competent skater.  Some councils resorted to buying up large quantities of bath salt so some roads were a wierd mix of rose pinks and lavender blues.

Reach the station, park and lock the bike as best I can with fingers that feel like giant bratworsts, and run - careful, careful - up the slippery wet mud covered stairs.  I’m going to make it with two minutes to spare for my train.  Feeling pretty proud of myself.  Reach the platform in time for the announcement that the train is gong to be late by 20 minutes.

The train when it comes, is a haven of heat and slowly I can exhale from the hunched and miserable position I’ve been holding while waiting for the train on the freezing platform.  When I finally reach HIlversum station and have buttoned up to face the 10 minute walk through the forest, I’m warmed enough by the long ride, to finally appreciate it all.  The walk is through a forest and it’s like the dazzling pictures of the fairy books I used to read from our Bombay balcony when I was a kid.  The Snow Princess, the Little Drummer Boy, the Ugly Duckling - they all lived in this wonderland.  Through the picture books it looked like it does now, with every tree  branch laden with snow, the untouched verges as pristine as anything can ever be.  These are the only 10 minutes of the day, when I can see what most Dutch people see all the time.  The beauty of winter.

For the rest of my day, which is concerned with the mundane tasks of getting myself and and my kids where we all need to be, winter for this particular Indian mother, so ill trained to survive in such conditions, life is hell for a couple of months every year.

By the time I get to work, I feel like I’ve run the marathon, and I’m ready for a lie down and a hot bath.