February vs. March

I have always hated January and February, the subzero windchill and slick ice and mounds of snow that Chicago likes to bestow as after-holiday gifts. November and December are warmed by the Hallelujah Chorus and Joy to the World and neighborhood houses glowing with red and green, with Santa Clauses and angels. But after Dick Clark and Ryan Seacrest have signed off, it's back to ordinary time, and winter is drab again.

So every year I look forward to March 1 the way kids look forward to Christmas Eve--I want spring and leaves on trees and dandelions and sunscreen.

But yesterday, when I said to someone, "I can't wait till March 1," I stopped. Wait a second. Do I really want to rush time this year? When spring is over this year, my son will packing up for college; this will be my last February with my son around. End of August, when days are still long and trees still green, he'll be off on campus, starting a new chapter of his life--and I'll be starting a new one of my own.

Sure, I plan to enjoy living alone--as always, I have plenty of writing projects lined up; I've begun to practice on Red (my violin) again; I'm contemplating volunteering at Open Books where you can read to a kid once a week. Never mind my actual 8 to 4:30 job--never mind hanging out with friends and family!

Still, this chapter of my life--raising my son--has been a good one. Our homelife is happy and peaceful--a blessing that only those from disfunctional families of origin can truly appreciate--and my son is good company. So now especially I want to savor the times he steps out of his White Sox shrine room to share school gossip or sports tidbits with me, the times he'll still take a 7-11 walk with me. While I'm excited for my son and his new college life, and am confident my new life chapter will be a good one, too, maybe February is OK this year.

But, February? Listen up! Enjoy this year--next year I'll be rushing you again!