Winter, we get it. You're the toughest season. You can make us stay home, strand us in a ditch, or even kill us. You're relentless. And those 5 years or so of mild, little snow-producing winters when we first moved into this house? Just meant to get us good and lazy. Now we can barely open the door, and the birdfeeder in the backyard is buried under 3 inches of new fluffy snow. I can't find the shovel (it's buried, too), and my 4 year old is bored out of her skin.
Okay? You win, winter. 6 more weeks of you, and then you and your sidekick spring will likely flood us all to hell again. But maybe if I give you credit for your brutishness, you'll back off a bit. Or at least let up for a couple days. I'm starting to get claustrophobic.