One more day.

I know the country is experiencing record highs. Temperatures that allow you to pull out shorts for your babies and yourselves. Weather that makes me want to sit on my back porch in a bathing suit so the rest of the world doesn't suffer while I expose skin so white it could blind the Cullen family
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But I don't get to do that. You know those weather maps that show the nation all color coded for the daily highs? While the rest of you have been soaking in yellows and oranges and reds, we're blue.

Blue. We were sixteen degrees below average yesterday. Below.

I hear you. "Woman, stop repeating yourself!"

No.

Blue! Below! Snow on the ground! Tears frozen like icicles! Toddlers gaining the ability to talk in full sentences long enough to ask why we're being punished!

Corruption son. Legalized gambling and prostitution, record setting drop out rates, casinos offering $4.99 prime beef dinner, but serving you choice instead. I could go on, but why bother?

I have not lost hope. We have signs of spring. I remember when I first calculated Phinny's due date, a May baby, I secretly hoped he would be born in April. A true spring babe. You know, like Bambi. Dreamy right? As long as we could keep the me being shot by an overzealous hunter part out of it. A spring baby he was, born the last week in March. It snowed that night, but less than a week later the trees were full of cherry blossoms and spring green.

I can see the tree buds now,  moments away from opening. My baby is days away from putting a year behind him and moving further away from the night we met. This winter, one of my least favorites, will be officially over tomorrow. There are daffodils and croci all set for Easter in a few weeks.

Let's make it through one more crappy winter day together. One more hot drink from 7-11. Tomorrow? A slurpee.

p.s. If you feel really sorry for me, you could always make this to cheer me up.

Martha will tell you how. Go here.