All the promises of a new season with the bonus of budding plants, warming weather, and every bird singing a song of "hope.hope.hope". Gets me in the mood to clean, declutter, prioritize, create, plant, and make a joyful noise!
We are ready to be done with Winter.
The coats, hats, gloves and scarves have done their duty and are set for retirement. I would toss them all out in a minute if I thought it would hurry the warming even a smidge. But I've lived in Nebraska long enough to know that Spring on the prairie is a test of patience and long-suffering. Only the strong survive.
It takes patience beyond reckoning to have three little people in the house, underfoot, and in my face so much of the last few months. I adore those little faces but right now I would like them even better outside.
Am I abnormal?
But that song of hope keeps being sung and April is finally here.
Sunny days are getting more frequent; hints of the feast to come.
We devour those days like the starving sunshine addicts we are.
This was one of those delicious, glorious, marvelous days:
Front-porch art show
Artist in torn jeans and bare toes
Sounds like the name of a masterpiece to me.
"In Spring, at the end of the day, you should smell like dirt." --Margaret Atwood
I would say my boys are doing their Springly duty quite well then. Got dirt? Check.
Climb high, precious bird, higher than the sky. But always come back to me because you take my heart with you when you go.
Attempting to spring right into Spring.
Chucks and cowboy boots
I could tell you it was a perfect day. And in a way it was... as long as perfection includes a fair bit of squabbling, dropping your apple in the sandbox, restroom requests five minutes after we left the house, and heading home just a dash early because of too much sass...
Maybe you could call it "Perfection with dirt on its face" and this would be the illustration:
Looks sweet right? Like the epitome of sibling camaraderie and middle-class Midwest America; walking to the park, holding hands, mailbox, mini van, camper, windblown trash barrels, cracked sidewalk, bicycle-wheel yard-art...
What you can't see is the girl pinching her brother, him sticking out his tongue, and the youngest yelling bloody murder at everybody to look at whatever he is innocently pointing to with his middle finger.
Call me crazy, I still love it.
It's a postcard of my life.
And I'm busy taping it in a place of honor in my heart's scrapbook.
Have an amazing weekend! See you Monday.