I never put a whole lot of thought into the whole tradition of Groundhog Day, beyond casually following the Today Show's newscast as I got ready for work. I mean, I am old enough to know how this works; I would be more inclined to credit El Nino or, I don't know-- God?!? with the early arrival of spring than a rascally little rodent.
But this year, the game has changed. I am *DONE* with winter. Seriously, absolutely over it. My former co-workers used to get mad at me when I'd be the solitary figure in the
parking lot, flailing out the awkward moves of a snow dance in March. Hey, I'll admit- the first seven minutes of playing with a one-year-old in the snow is fun/endearing/cute/etc. Beyond that, it's cold. (That is, assuming, that aforementioned one-year-old makes it out of the house without a meltdown. Leg warmers followed by long underwear followed by overalls followed by six shirts followed by three pairs of socks followed by PUSH! PUSH! PUSH! into snowboots two sizes too small followed by...
you get it. It's a tantrum waiting to happen.)
So all that to say, I am summoning the Groundhog powers that be, and praying for an early spring. Evie and I miss our old haunts-- the playground, the walking trail, Echo Tunnel (as we so christened the slightly grimy walking trail tunnel that goes under Newport Road). I will not be sad to retire Brownie, Puffs, Beauty, or P. Diddy (as we so christened her various winter jackets, so as to not become confused by the various and sundry options) and pull out a lightweight fleece or *GASP* go coat-less. I am anxious to open the windows in the house, and roll down the windows in the Maz, and let the wind blow through Evie's hair... err, head.
Don't call me on February 2nd. Don't email or text. I'll be the solitary figure in the parking lot (perhaps with Evie Ergo'd on my back) flailing out the awkward moves of a spring dance.