You know that feeling when winter first hits? Not the calendar winter, but that first morning when you wake up and something feels different? That happened this week, and it’s got me thinking about how everything changes with the seasons – especially here in Wyoming. The locals keep telling us ‘just wait for January’ with this knowing look that makes me wonder what we’re in for. But even now, in November, I can feel it changing me. Changing us. Changing how I move through our cozy 980 square feet, where every sound from the washer echoes through the house and I can see the kitchen sink from my desk. This smaller space has taught me to work differently, to think differently. Some days I bounce from task to task like a pinball – washing a few dishes here, switching laundry there, maybe catching a few minutes to write at my desk until the dryer’s rhythm changes its tune. It’s not how I planned to live when I was doing theater work or going to school, but there’s something about winter that makes you evaluate everything, even if you try not to dwell too long on the paths not taken.
The morning routine has become my anchor in this sea of change. It started with necessity – too many tardy slips, too many rushed mornings, too many “five more minutes, Dad” negotiations. Now I drag myself out of bed an hour and a half before the kids need to be up. Not because I want to – trust me, that covers feels like it weighs a thousand pounds some mornings – but because I’ve learned something important about control and patience. When I’m up early enough to have the kitchen humming before anyone else stirs, when the coffee maker is ready with hot water for drinks and breakfast is planned and starting to fill the house with warmth, I’m a different parent. The frustration that used to bubble up when trying to wake up alongside demanding kids has been replaced with something calmer. Yesterday showed me the difference clearly – got my son fed and off to the bus, came back to a quiet house where nobody else had stirred yet. Made myself something hot to drink, started on breakfast for the girls. It sounds simple, but when you’re managing a house where every food item is planned for specific meals, where the budget depends on those plans staying intact, those quiet morning moments aren’t just about peace. They’re about maintaining the delicate balance of our new life.
Planning has taken on new importance as winter settles in. Weekend mornings now find me studying weather forecasts alongside recipe books, planning meals that match the coming week’s temperatures. Colder days call for soups that can warm us from the inside out, while warmer days might see heartier meat-centered meals. It’s not just about feeding the family anymore – it’s about creating rhythm in our days, about making sure every ingredient has its purpose and place. The kitchen, visible from nearly everywhere in our small home, has become command central for this operation. Each meal plan ripples out to affect shopping lists, budget allocations, and even the daily flow of energy through our household. When the kids get into food that wasn’t designated for that moment, it’s not just about the food – it’s about disrupting a carefully orchestrated system that keeps our family moving forward.
Nights bring their own challenges as winter deepens. Our queen-sized bed, once plenty spacious for two adults, has become a magnet for small bodies seeking warmth. First the 3-year-old sneaks in, sometimes even our 5-year-old joins the party. The resulting sleep is restless at best, leaving us to push through tired days and tag-team weekend mornings for recovery sleep. But even this has become part of our winter rhythm – one parent managing the early hours while the other catches up on rest, trading off in a dance that’s becoming as natural as the changing seasons. These disrupted nights ripple through our days, affecting everything from energy levels to patience reserves, but we’re learning to adapt, to find new patterns that work within winter’s constraints.
The house itself has become a partner in this seasonal adaptation. From my desk, I can monitor the pulse of our home – the washing machine’s cycles, the dishes waiting in the sink, the laundry piled by the couch for folding. This visibility, which might feel overwhelming in a larger space, has actually helped create a more productive flow to my days. Instead of trying to complete tasks in rigid blocks of time, I’ve learned to flow between them naturally, letting the house’s needs guide my movements. A few dishes here, a bit of writing there, switching laundry when the machine’s rhythm changes – it’s a constant dance of small progresses rather than grand accomplishments. Success isn’t measured in completed to-do lists anymore, but in the visible difference between morning and night. If the house looks cleaner when we turn in than when we woke up, that’s a victory worth celebrating.
The locals’ warnings about January loom over us like storm clouds on the horizon. They tell stories of snow that lingers well into spring, of drifts that reshape the landscape until it’s nearly unrecognizable. But we’re taking it one day at a time, learning our way through this first winter just as we learned our way through downsizing and relocating. Sometimes I think about the theater, about school, about the paths I thought I’d be walking right now. But then the dryer signals a finished load, or it’s time to start dinner prep, and I’m pulled back into the rhythm of this new life we’re building. Maybe that’s what winter in Wyoming is really teaching us – that sometimes the best way forward is to simply move with the season, adapting as each day comes, finding success in the small victories of a well-managed home and a family fed with carefully planned meals.
I wonder sometimes what January will really bring. But sitting here at my desk, watching the morning light slowly fill our cozy space, listening to the washing machine’s familiar rhythm, I’m starting to think maybe these winter changes aren’t all bad. Maybe they’re just teaching us a different way to move through our days, one load of laundry, one planned meal, one small victory at a time.
