Spring Me

It’s official: I am sick of winter.

I’m sick of snow. I’m sick of ice. I’m sick of cold.

I’m sick of snowplows and salt trucks and sanders and snowblowers and shovels.

I’m sick of mopping up dirty, salt-filled puddles of melted snow from my kitchen floor. I’m sick of starting to get ready for any trip 15 minutes sooner than usual so I can pack the kids into their mittens and hats and boots. I’m sick of scraping the ice off my car. I’m sick of worrying that my kids will fall on the ice. I’m sick of waiting anxiously for my husband to make it home from work during a snowstorm.

I’m sick of winter. I’m ready for spring.

It doesn’t help that many of my wiser friends are currently in warmer climes, whether for a well-timed vacation or because they were smart enough to move out of the snow belt. And it doesn’t help that they are posting photos of lovely tropical scenes involving palm trees, beaches, swimming pools, people wearing bathing suits and shorts, and NO SNOW.

Somebody spring me.

I need to see some crocuses and snowdrops poking their noses through a snowbank. I need lovesick chickadees calling to each other and cardinals warbling to their lady loves and robins chasing worms. I need daffodil buds and fuzzy pussy willows and forsythias exploding with golden blossoms.

But since I’m not expecting to see any of those outside my window any time soon, I guess I’ll have to settle for some virtual spring. 

Whew. I feel better now. Guess I’ve been sprung!