Oh my God, it’s 5pm on Sunday night, and I feel like we’ve had the longest weekend February ever. Honestly. How the shortest month of the year went on forever is beyond me. Our February calendar hanging in the kitchen has been massacred by the appointment sharpie, with names, initials, arrows, times, with no leftover room for things like “grocery shopping,” which had to boss its way onto any available time slot. It’s 5pm on a Sunday night – the last Sunday in February – and instead of moaning about the start of another week, I find myself delighted to finally be sitting on my couch, next to my cohabitating cat and dog, watching the Olympic hockey finals. Delighted that tomorrow’s Monday. Cause tomorrow’s March, baby. Fuck yeah.
Now don’t let March fool you. Don’t let it tell you stories of lazy weekends and donut mornings. For instance, this Thursday, the wife’s sister and her husband are passing through town on the way from Arizona (yes, the state) to Washington, DC. They will stay the night with us, and the next mid-morning, we will go south to the Outer Banks while they will continue north. After a long weekend of beach walking, shell collecting, anniversary-celebrating, we will make our way back to town the following Monday night. And although we will be driving past the exits to my family’s house, we will not stop by. In fact, I’ve intentionally not told them of our plans due to the stopping-by guilt, manipulation, and money-swindling that would ensue: “Oh! We’d love to see you! Let’s do lunch! Can you stop on your way here and pick-up seven 5-dollar-footlongs?” This is when I stop and say a little prayer than we are not ever the type of parents our kid would purposely avoid after they grow up and start making their own travel decisions.
I digress. See – this week’s plans are manageable, only because we’re in a different month. This afternoon, we shuffled and moaned through the grocery store, picking up essentials for the week and snacks for the drive. We’re hungover (and sore!) from one visitor’s leaving yesterday morning, two visitors from 1pm-7pm yesterday (complete with lunch and tour of the town), a consultation with some local gardening folks this morning who came to the house, and a morning complete with hacksawing, pruning, trimming, and digging since the city is coming on Tuesday to pick up trees and limbs (and hopefully stumps) that were sacrificed during this year’s snow storms. Let’s just say that Vegas might be comforted by the sound of me hacksawing a tree limb. Or maybe the variety of curse words coming from my mouth as I dug up the massive dead stump along the front walk.
I’m not sure if heavy digging is sanctioned by the OBGYN, but we come from the “suck-it-up-buttercup” school of being pregnant, apparently, as I pointed out to my wife earlier today as she hauled the stump out to the curb. I am still able enough to do a lot of things, though perhaps at a slower speed, and until I am physically unable to hike down to the bottom of the hill to throw things in the composter, I will continue to do so. One small, hesitant step at a time. In my maternity jeans. Ohhh yeah.
This is all to say, hey March. It’s really good to see you. You look marvelous. You’re one month closer to April, May, and ultimately June. I don’t know what the hell took you so long, but I’ll try to stop my whining and complaining. Do these maternity jeans make me look fat? I know, I know, they’re muddy. Look – make yourself at home, and if you see February, kick it in the pants for me, hm? Thanks.