This week marked the first official day of spring. And for those of us in the Midwest and the East Coast and every other place that’s been hit with a particularly hard winter, just knowing the spring is really on its way – even though my patio is still an iceberg and my yard is mostly dingy white and the temperatures hovered in the mid-30s for much of the day – is a huge relief.
Because let’s be real here, people: unless you’re, like, Sarah and live in the land where the sun always shines, this winter has been a doozy. My kids had eight “snow days”, and probably a few school days that really should have been snow days except that administrators realized partway through the season that they were probably going to have to tighten the criteria by which a snow day gets declared, or the kids would be in school until July.
There are cars in my alley still completely buried in snow, only just starting to emerge. Our front yard is made up of varying levels of frozen dog poop, marking one blizzard to the next, like a geologic record of the season’s precipitation. After all, for two months there was never a single melt. It all just kept piling on, storm after storm.
But can I admit something here? As cold and snowy and occasionally pain-in-the-butt-ish this winter has been, I have to say I kept a surprisingly good attitude about it for the last three-plus months (we got our first huge snowstorm and snow day in early November, yo.)
Sure, I’m relieved that we’re moving into spring, and am practically salivating over the idea of summer. But I never experienced that sense of lingering disappointment this year that I usually get in mid-February, when the temps usually slide up above freezing for a day or two, then drop down again, then rise, then fall.
This year, it was all just…cold. And snowy. So every day, I knew exactly what to expect: more cold, and likely more snow. And because I never expected anything else, I was never disappointed when it didn’t come. In fact, I came to rather enjoy the drama of yet another plunging thermometer, the cozy chaos of all of us getting stuck in the house together, all day, again.
The other day I realized that the difference between my attitude about this winter as compared to previous winters is not unlike the difference between the way I embraced the babyhoods of my younger children as compared to the babyhoods of my oldest.
When I was a newer mom, I was like I usually am in February: irrationally hopeful. [click to continue…]