November in London, Ontario has exactly two settings: "Where did summer go?" and "Why is there frost on my windshield?" We hit the second one this week, and my front hall turned into a crime scene.
Somewhere between the back-to-school shoes and the Halloween costumes, all the winter gear staged a jailbreak. One boot here. A single mitten there. A snow pant leg sticking out from under the couch like it was trying to escape. I opened the bin that is supposed to hold all of it and found three left gloves, one hat with no mate, and a scarf that I am pretty sure belongs to a neighbour.
So I did what any mom of six does when the temperature drops and the chaos rises: I declared a gear hunt. Winner gets first pick of the hot chocolate toppings. Loser has to wear the single lonely mitten to the bus stop. Suddenly everybody was motivated. Drawers were opened. Closets were raided. Somebody found a boot in the bathtub, and I have decided not to ask questions I do not want answered.
Did we find a matching set for everyone? Of course not. That would be witchcraft. But we found enough to get out the door without anybody crying about cold fingers, and I am counting that as a championship win.
The real payoff came after bedtime, when the house finally went quiet and the front hall stopped looking like a lost-and-found explosion. I stepped out onto the porch, wrapped up warm, for a little exhale with mommy's magic flowers. Just me, the cold air, and ten minutes where nobody needed a mitten, a snack, or a referee.
Winter is coming, mamas. The gear will never match, but we will survive it anyway. Tell me: what is the weirdest place you have ever found a missing boot?
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