You are hereby sentenced to triple mittening

Only on my worstest of enemies do I wish the fate of triple mittening. Let me put this another way. I would rather change one hundred diapers than execute the triple mittening. I would even consider being in that joke, where somebody (there are different versions) sees the room in hell where everybody’s standing knee deep in poop, drinking coffee, and thinks, not a bad way to spend eternity, only to hear after signing up for this one: “okay, coffee break’s over, back on your heads!”

Winter is a happy time, full of fluffy white stuff, smiles and giggles, but for me, it is just finding the thumbhole six times. Oh I know, I know, skip the thumbhole, just shove the little hand in and tighten up with the velcro. Everything will be fine. Except, NOT. The thumbhole is salvation. Get that little wriggling, non-compliant, opposable digit into its Thinsulated receptacle and you are buying yourself an extra fifteen minutes of quality time. Do it six times, and you – let’s face it – should win a Nobel prize.

My boys have come to understand the psychic agony this Olympic-worthy sport causes their dear papa. While they don’t exactly assist in the process, when they are outside they are quick to notify me when a mitten is even close to becoming dislodged from its owner. And really, no matter how close you’ve come to the holy grail, by which I mean three, four, maybe even five thumbs in the holes, sleeves velcroed over the wrists, tightly tightly pulled, your winter activity for the day will be…re-mittening triplets.