We have been having really nice weather this weekend. Okay, it’s not “nice” by mid-summer standards, but it’s at least different. The past two days have been the warmest we’ve had in months, warm enough that opening the windows leads to a delightful “fresh air” sensation rather than a dreadful “freezing ice needles penetrating tender flesh” sensation.
Weather talk never ends up the way I want it to.
Anyway, this weekend has strengthened my resolve to find a house with yard for the move next month. By the end of February the weather will be almost nice almost all the time, and I am pretty determined to build Connor a sandbox. Also maybe a swingset. I am all giddy with thoughts of outdoor play, days spent not cooped up in the house but instead romping aesthetically about a yard blooming with perfect spring flowers while my appealing and chipper child laughs his way down a slide. (Am also giddy with the headrush that accompanies run-on sentences of that magnitude. Whew.)
I’m really pleased with the entire idea of the move, now that I’ve had time to wrap my head around it. It will be nice to get rid of all the extraneous, cluttersome crap that accumulates if one stays in the same place (with a toddler and a packrat husband) for too long. It will be really nice to finally live in a house — a real house, with solid walls upon which things can be hung, real window frames above which pretty curtains can be… er, also hung, and actual closet space in which our clothes can be (you guessed it) hung. I guess hanging things really gets my motor revving, and now I think I have sufficiently embarrassed myself for one day.
If you have to move, I highly suggest planning the move around spring. Something about slightly warmer temperatures and the occasional breeze makes the whole thing kind of delightful. It’s like nature’s little gift to me, a do-over for January’s waning productivity.
Nature: Um, duh. Ever heard of “spring cleaning”? I created this season just to make you lazy slobs my bitch.
Me: For Christ’s sake, shut up and start packing.
I do think, though, that when one begins anthropomorphizing the force that is nature, it might be time to stop typing. Actually, I can’t even remember why I started typing today. Something about the weather and, um, sandboxes? Needles, flowers, new house, closets? Hurry up, spring. I obviously need to get my ass in gear.