Here is what I hate about snow in mid-March: it is supposed to be spring; there isn’t enough of the white stuff to do anything productive with, such as sled; even if there were, I wouldn’t want to get out my toboggan.
“The weather’s all crazy right now,” a 5-year-old boy, a stranger, informed me yesterday at the park. He was right. The wind whipped our faces as I organized races for him, his younger brother, and my three children, in order to get them moving since they complained they were too cold to climb on the equipment.
But last weekend was actually balmy with highs in the 60s. I nearly threw open our windows. Our kids shed their shoes at the sand park.
Then this week, it has been windy and winter all over again. I made our twins wear hats to kindergarten. It dropped to 28 the other night. Today’s forecast called for a high of 38 with rain and snow showers. This must be what it’s like to live in Denver.
“It’s summer here,” a friend, recently transplanted to Texas, posted on Facebook.
“It’s supposed to snow here today,” a local friend responded.
“It is snowing here today,” I wrote.
Typing this entry while walking the dog this morning, large, wet flakes defiled my BlackBerry.
My husband, who grew up under the fluorescent Florida sunshine, and I, who was raised in dreary but mild Seattle, have been telling ourselves for the past 15 years that we like it here in our leafy neighborhood just outside the Philadelphia city limits. Our children can attend our local public school in a district that ranks among the top in the state. We can (barely) afford the mortgage on our roomy old house that boasts a generous yard and plenty of space for our three kids and dog to tumble around in inside. The township renovated the nearby pool several years ago; our neighborhood library is undergoing a face-lift. The friends we have made here are intelligent, down-to-earth, and numerous.
But the truth is that we hate it here—or at least that’s how we feel at the backside of this chilly, dismal winter, resting on the cusp of but not yet plunged into the spongy heart of spring.
“Enjoying the snow?” I asked a couple in hats and parkas striding past me as I walked the dog.
“Yeah, we are,” the fellow answered. “We’re going sledding later. Want to join us?”
“That’s at the top of my list of things I want to do in mid-March,” I said.
They laughed. But I didn’t. And if winter persists in rearing its hoary head much longer, I may lose my sense of humor altogether.