Not to get all weather-y on you, but March has begun. In New England, March raises questions (more on that later).
February had its moments. There were cold ones, snowy ones, icy ones and a few moments of crazyhopeful thaws. February had the little girl turn three (she can say it without any toddleresque mispronunciation; she’s a little girl, she tells me). February brought that dreaded convergence of solo parenting stint meets small child with high fever.
And of course, there was more, always, always more.
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Some days, the pile up of dishes and laundry and forms due immediately and rides and birthday parties and events and work and groceries and markers a kid left strewn across the floor feel as messy as the house and as piled up as that list is long (longer, really).
Other days, although all that remains the case—dishes-laundry-forms-rides-birthday parties-events-work-groceries-strewn markers—the sun shines or the essay reveals itself unbidden like the drip-drip-drip where the sun makes the snow melt or the little girl in her brother’s hat suggests the plan: “I’m the big mama and you’re the little mama, okay?” And you, the little mama, are smiling.
There really is always an up side.
Some days, the up side seems elusive, because the struggle is so intense. When Katie Granju’s firstborn lay in a hospital last spring, it was hard to imagine the happy ending. Well, there’s not that kind of happy ending—one that’s neat and pretty and fairy tale sweet. Her son is gone. I want to give a half-full bit of everything’s okay here. But it’s not, not like that. When she wrote about her van being flooded during a suddenly very intense storm, though, I was simultaneously worried for her and impressed that in telling the tale she managed to use the word dunderhead. She grieves; she lets her readers know sometimes that she grieves minute-ly, that’s to say by the minute; her grief, she explains, is omnipresent. Simultaneously, the up side is simply the understanding that there’s nothing to do—grand scheme of things—than press onward (fake it till you make it?). She has—and cherishes her brood—J, E, C and G and her dear hubby and her family and friends.
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On a Sunday morning at the tip end of February between drawing (and an official-ish drawing*) and reading and building a book ramp, I found myself feeling so very fortunate I get to live with that big mama and her brothers, my dear children (including the sleeping biggest brother a floor above in semi-absentia and their actual papa, at that moment also upstairs).
**
So, March. By the end of it, we should have seen grass (at least a little bit) and a few early fleurs (as my friend, Elizabeth, always used to call them) and in seeing them, we’ll reflect upon how against-the-odds they seem and how matter-of-fact they are. Between now and then, we New Englanders will learn how much winter and how much spring we encounter, and how many days our long lists seem tedious and how many days our long lists seem rather inconsequential despite the fact that we will likely not shed them with our winter coats. Obviously, we’ll concentrate on ditching the coats.
*My Princess Boy went to Ben L (who graciously donated his copy to Sunnyside—Thank You!)
Not All Princesses Dress in Pink went to Sarah H (who will share the fun with her kiddos!)
