Changes

We're in the middle of a January thaw here in southern New Hampshire. It's a treat to see the green peeking out from underneath the blanket of white that has been the customary landscape here since we moved in at the beginning of December, but as seasoned New Englanders we are under no illusions that it will last nor that it is a harbinger of an early spring. Nevertheless our hearts begin their yearning for the snow to melt and the pussywillows to bud. Forsythia will blossom and crocuses will push their bright heads up out of the chilled soil. The first robin will make its appearance and the blackbird will sound a hopeful call from its home in the marsh sometimes while the ground is yet white. Living in a temperate climate seems appealing at times, but how I would miss the sense of anticipation the changing of the seasons brings.

Indoors, we are experiencing some changes as well. The Terrorist Baby has been hit with a second virus and the living room has been transformed into a sickroom. The vaporizer is spewing enough thyme-scented steam to tickle the fancy of a Finn while she lies in state on her pillow-strewn divan spewing orders in between fits of coughing and nose-blowing. Speaking of tickles I can feel the commencement of one in my throat. Not a surprise after three almost sleepless nights. Being thankful in all circumstances, I am grateful that my responsiblities do not include tending livestock or gardens at the moment. As a mother, I do know what it is like to run on sheer willpower, though, and anticipate that my usual round of duties will be accomplished in a near-coma state in the coming week while visions of crocuses dance in my head.