We Asked Parents, What Is One ‘90s Winter Memory You’re Recreating With Your Kids?

Growing up in the 1990s has increasingly become a shared point of nostalgia. It appears often now, across social media, in conversations, in passing references to a time that feels collectively familiar but difficult to define. There is something that seems to connect people who grew up then, even if their childhoods unfolded in different cities, climates, and homes.

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It comes from growing up before everything was documented, before memories were curated for an audience, before childhood unfolded online.

Winter, in particular, had a way of structuring life, slowing it down, changing how days were spent, shaping traditions that returned year after year.

Perhaps that is why so many parents today find themselves returning to those memories. In an effort to ensure that pre-social media memories are not lost, we pass on non-digital traditions in small, deliberate ways. With that in mind, I asked parents about their winter memories from the 1990s and how they are recreating them for their children today.

From Goa to Chandigarh

For Sanchari Pal, winter in Goa was defined by two constants: Christmas at home and long days outdoors.

“Growing up in Goa, I have two core winter memories,” she says. “My sister and I are setting up our own Christmas tree at home. As we’d dig through our boxes of ornaments, we’d see more than tiny figures. We’d see memories, remembering which ones came into our lives at which time. And finally, there was that wondrous joy of having put up a super pretty tree we could be proud of.”

The second memory unfolded by the river.

“Winter picnics under the riverside trees in Chorao, Aldona or Betul village. Ma would pack a colourful mat, our trusted old hammock and a big basket of goodies from local bakeries—poi sandwiches, bolinhas, pastries and lemonade,” she recalls. “My sister and I would grab our favourite books, frisbee and Uno, and we’d be set for the most awesome day under the winter sun!”

Today, Sanchari lives in Chandigarh. Goa is no longer her everyday geography, but the rhythm of those winters remains.

“Every winter, we set up our Christmas tree in our Chandigarh home — it’s amazing to see the same wonder in her eyes!” she says, referring to her daughter. “And our favourite picnic spot is now beside a lovely twin-lake — Tikker Taal — nestled in the Morni Hills. Winter picnics now come with the added adventure of paddle boating!”

“What I love about this,” she adds, “is that it’s not just about reliving our fondest childhood memories, it’s about letting our kids create their own.”

A coastal South Indian winter memory by the beach 

For Pranita Bhat, winter in coastal South India arrived gently.

“Growing up in coastal South India, winter never meant layers or woollens,” she says. “But every year-end, when the weather turned pleasant — with cooler early mornings and breezy evenings — it felt special in its own way.”

Those days were often spent at the beach.

“That’s when we’d head out as a family to the beaches of Udupi, whether it was the calm stretches of Padukere or the iconic Kaup beach with its lighthouse,” she recalls. “Winter picnics by the sea hit differently—softer sun, more time to linger, and food that somehow tasted better.”

Food was central to the experience: sandwiches and juices packed from home, punctuated by treats bought outside—steaming cups of Maggi, spicy chaats, gobi Manchurian eaten off paper plates.

Today, she brings her children to the beach in winter for the same reason.

“For us, the beach is still the best playground — full of sandy feet, salty hair, big giggles, and the kind of childlike fun that quietly turns into lifelong memories.”

Cleaning, donating and decorating with intention

In my home, winter begins before December arrives. 

It signals a reset, opening cupboards, sorting through what the year has left behind. Clothes my child has outgrown. Toys once loved and now untouched.

This is an inherited ritual. I grew up watching my mother do the same every winter, long before decluttering had a name. What no longer served us was folded carefully and given away. Only later did I understand the lesson: that keeping more than we need is excess, and sharing is responsibility, not charity.

Now, my five-year-old trails me from room to room, convinced every object holds a memory. I let her tell those stories before explaining why some things must move on. We talk about privilege, about how not every child has cupboards to clear. She doesn’t always agree. That resistance is part of learning.

Around the same time, we plan our Christmas tree slowly, reusing what we have and adding little by little. When I was growing up, this part of December belonged to my grandmother. She was a deeply artistic woman who worked constantly with her hands. Forty years ago, she stitched decorative stars, layered fabric pieces finished with beads that hung proudly on our tree for decades. 

That instinct to prepare, to decorate, to create warmth as an act of care runs through the women in my family. I don’t articulate this to my daughter. She is already learning by watching.

Eating veggies straight from the soil

For Meghna Bhati, winter followed a structure that never changed.

“So every winter we had two non-negotiables: visiting mama’s farms, all green and lush, eating veggies straight from the soil, and then having nice bonfires every evening where we’d roast chana and munch on it,” she says.

The return journey always included a stop.

“On the way back, hitting Ujjain’s winter fair: Karthik mela—full of fun rides, epic shows, and the OG mela food: garadu + jalebi,” she adds. “Love how they market it as thand ka dushman. Plus coming back with lovely souvenirs, all local, handmade crafts and toys.”

This year, she followed the same route with her son.

“This time, I did the exact same thing but with my son. Farms and fair, and wow, he loved every bit of it. Full circle moment.”

'Grandparents’ homes were full of love and warmth'

Vidya Gowri’s winter memories are anchored in time spent away from routine.

“When winter arrived, we always looked forward to our Christmas and New Year holidays,” she writes. “After studying hard through December, this break felt well-earned, and we waited for it with pure excitement.”

The heart of it was her grandparents’ home.

“Grandparents’ homes were full of love and warmth. We stayed for a whole week, with no restrictions and no questions asked,” she recalls. “We could sleep all day, eat whenever we wanted, and watch cartoons endlessly—Tom and Jerry, Road Runner, Popeye the Sailor Man, Oswald — without anyone telling us to switch off the TV.”

What stands out most, though, is her mother.

“This was also the one time of the year when we saw our mother truly rest,” Vidya says. “All through the year, she was constantly on her feet.”

Today, she wants her children to experience that same generosity of time, and she is clear that mothers deserve that rest too.

'I hope they grow up associating winter with warmth, music & togetherness'

For Aanchal Bajpai, winter has always sounded like music.

“Christmas, for me, was about carols,” she says. “I was part of my school choir, and every December was filled with rehearsals, harmonies, and the quiet excitement of singing together.” Those songs, she remembers, became the soundtrack of her winters. Long after the season ended, they stayed with her as some of her most comforting childhood memories.

Today, she finds herself returning to that same ritual with her children.

“I try to recreate that feeling with my kids,” she says. “I teach them a few of the carols I grew up singing — not perfectly, not formally — just as moments we share together.” There are no rehearsals now, no choir uniforms, no audience. Just familiar tunes passed on quietly, without instruction.

“It feels like passing on a small piece of my childhood,” she adds. “I hope they grow up associating winter with warmth, music, and togetherness, just like I did.”

Taken together, these stories point to something specific.

None of us is trying to recreate a decade — we know that’s not possible in today’s world. We are trying to recreate a way of living through winter, one that made room for rest, repetition, sharing, and awareness of what we had, and what others did not.

Manufacturing memories

In the 1990s, these moments were not curated. They were built from what was available: a park, a mat, a shared room, handmade decorations, seasonal food that appeared briefly and disappeared again.

Parenting today often comes with pressure to manufacture joy. But the memories that last are rarely the ones we choreograph. They form over time, through habits children absorb before they can name them.

Years from now, our children may not remember every detail. But they will remember how winter felt. The way days slowed down. The sense that there was time.

Everything else is secondary.