Muddling

I hear them in the playroom right now, accusing one another of wrecking the fairy house and arguing over whether or not someone apologized appropriately.  Someone has said, "Hey Mom . . . ?" approximately 847 times in the last five days.  There is a pile of clean laundry on the bed, waiting to be folded and put away (ugh).  Outside, it is still 40 and rainy and I actually cannot remember a time when the weather was anything different.  Jason has been working non-stop for the last three weeks (except when he was sequestered upstairs all weekend, throwing up), and tonight he's getting on a plane to someplace sunny and warm.  Without me.

It's Thursday of spring break.

I'm dreaming of tulips and sand toys, of impromptu neighborhood barbecues and runs around the lake wearing only shorts and a tee, of bike rides and flip flops, of windows open and coffee on the front stoop, of driving with the windows down, of sunscreen and swimming outside, of planting the third annual vegetable garden, of birds and crickets and leaves on trees.

Instead, it's long-sleeved fleece winter jammies, blowing my nose 7 times before breakfast every day for two weeks (and trying to get certain someones to stop picking their noses and eating it!), wearing gloves to ride bikes.  It's Jemma eliminating yet more foods from her already-sparse diet (after two years of eating it daily:  "Mom, I don't like peanut butter any more.  I just want bread with jam.").  It's Annie asking daily to get her hair dyed permanently pink.  (No.)  It's Jason flailing into the house forty minutes late, bolting his dinner, and heading upstairs to his office.  It's 40 and rainy.