It may sound a bit strange, but I have a slight obsession with snowmen. The indoor décor variety, more specifically, designed to be displayed throughout the house—several of which were handcrafted by my daughters in grade school. That makes them even more special, I think. I realize that spring is just around the corner and that most people have probably stowed that sort of thing away already. But not me. I can’t bear to banish them to the attic with the rest of our holiday decorations. Call me crazy.
When our kids were little and even a little biggish, we spent countless hours building snowmen, snow forts and snow furniture together in the yard—sometimes with neighbors, sometimes with grandparents and sometimes after dark. I’ll never forget the night we built two gigantic snowmen at the edge of our property facing the street so that our bus driver, Helen, could see them when she arrived in the morning. I think she was pleased. Without question, those times spent in the snow represent some of my favorite memories harvested from parenting. Maybe that’s partly the reason I keep the snowmen around—a little reminder of the good days that were had.
Or maybe my shrine to snowmen (and cutout snowflakes for that matter) has more to do with the fact that my love for winter has grown exponentially since the advent of menopause. I used to be a “summer person.” Not so much anymore. Hot flashes are no picnic. Neither is weight gain, brain fog or night sweats. I’ve had them for ELEVEN YEARS and counting. That’s longer than we’ve endured Trump—which is really saying something.
Not surprisingly, I’ve purchased special (very expensive) “menopause pajamas,” read tons of books and articles on the subject, talked with numerous doctors about my sufferings, tried various medications, both over-the-counter and prescription, and have come to the conclusion that I’m doomed. Or maybe it’s just that God hates me. Probably both.
Thankfully, I was gifted two personal fans to help with my miserable situation, in the event that the batteries wear out and I need a replacement. One of them is ideal in that it’s small, lightweight and designed to be hand-held. Plus, its fan blades are really soft and flexible so that when they hit my face, I don’t take an eye out. The other one is super quiet, has three speeds and is actually wearable—for my insufferably hot neck area, of course. When I switch one on, my husband instinctually moves away from me, because obviously, the last thing I need is his body heat adding to my inferno.
I’m sure that man just shakes his head when he finds me lying on the tile floor like a dog. In my defense, I knew our dogs were on to something. Cold air sinks and central air-conditioning can only do so much in the stifling heat of summer.
What’s more, I set the bedroom temperature at a cool 67 degrees and sleep with a ceiling fan on even in the dead of winter. Yes, my husband hates it. But he loves me (I think) and takes one for the team every night. While he’s burrowed beneath the blankets, I’m flipping my flipping pillow over to the cool side umpteen times a night, ripping the sheets off and hanging one leg off the bed so that, for at least a moment, I can catch a breeze from the aforementioned ceiling fan that’s just trying its best. Sad to say that a lot of nights, spooning is out of the question. In lieu of that, he sometimes retrieves a spare fan out of his nightstand and holds it over my face in the dark. Not to worry; the blades on that one are soft and pliable, too.
What’s weird is that I can be minding my own business, completely comfortable with the air temperature around me and then out of nowhere I feel a wave of heat so intense I’m sure it came from the depths of hell. It then rises from the base of my skull, eventually enveloping my entire head and body. As an added bonus, my glasses fog up and I sprout a tiny sweat mustache. Talk about a hot mess. That’s an understatement.
Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (probably building a snowman in the lawn). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/notesfromplanetmom. Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.
Copyright 2026 Melinda L. Wentzel
It’s possible that I might be slightly smitten with jingle bells—more specifically, with the completely delicious and decidedly hypnotic sound they emit. A feast for the ears. A balm for the soul. A window into the past for people like me, who’ve harvested decades-old memories that involve horses, snow-covered cornfields and wintry afternoons spent on my grandfather’s farm. As a result, I am fairly incapable of resisting the allure of a store bin filled to capacity with sleigh bells. That said, I cannot walk by without reaching in to sample each and every melodic wonder. To pluck great hordes from the array, one after another, appraising each with regard to its heft, luster and, of course, the inherent splendor of its sound. Call it a weakness if you will. Perhaps even a debilitating fixation. I have no shame.
In the dark of predawn I lay in bed, tucked snugly beneath my downy comforter, sleet pinging against the windowpanes in soft yet fitful waves. Against all odds associated with parenthood, no one under the age of eight burst into the room to announce that the sky was falling. Translation: my husband and I had had the presence of mind to skip setting the kids’ alarm the night before, in anticipation of inclement weather almost certain to arrive by daybreak. So for a time, all was silent in this good house—except for the ticking of clocks and the tiny taps at the window.
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