I have just about had enough of winter. On the eve of what is predicted to be a “quick storm,” resulting in four to six more inches of snow on our already blanketed yard, the magic of the glistening white branches is over for me. I want to be able to open my back door and send the kids outside without having to bundle them up or respond to snow up the sleeve, down the collar, in the boot. I want to be able to clean my house–yes, I just said that–without people underfoot everywhere I go (undoing my work before it’s completed). I want warmth. I want sun. I want to see new life, not dirty snowbanks.

Wishful thinking. Spring cannot be hurried, especially not this year, it seems.

The parallel is not lost on me. The parallel to trying to parent in the present, to not be propelled by the glimpses into the future that surround me. I am confronted by the contradiction of wanting to fast forward to flower buds and the desire–and sometime struggle–to find the joy in the moment, even if the moment is yet another art project in the close quarters of our dining room.

Changing temperatures and seasons happen inside my home, too, of course.

I want to be able to send the kids upstairs to get dressed and not have to help. Two out of three ain’t bad, as the saying goes. But that third is just so demanding. A diaper change, finding an outfit that resembles her “big sissah’s” in just the right details while still reflecting her own 2-year-old sense of self takes too long, too much (of my) patience. I find myself looking forward to easier days. Days of being alone in the house for a few hours at a time. Days of no more diapers. Days of throwing away sippy cups, passing on toddler toys, walking past the Disney-themed fruit snacks in the store without being pestered into buying them. “But they’re on SAAAALE, Mama.” (Oh my worldly 6-year-old savvy shopper.)

The time will come. The mercury will rise. The window plastic will be discarded, sashes thrown open. Squeals of kids in the sandbox outside will permeate with the sound of the vacuum cleaner inside.

My youngest will potty train. My son will ride his bike to his friend’s house alone. My middle daughter will master reading and curl up in her chair with a novel or even a book of poetry, perhaps.

All of this I know. The real question is, will I be sunning myself? Or will I be cursing the heat, wishing away the days in hopes that sweater weather will present itself soon?

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Originally published in February 2011