It is nearly the end of February, and it's snowing outside. Fat Harry Potter snowflakes. Usually this time of year I am so itchy for spring to arrive that I am coaxing seeds to life in jiffy greenhouses by now, in anxious anticipation. I am not a winter person.
This year though, perhaps because of my cheerful fireplace, or all the work to be done inside, or being out of town so that the snow stays fresh and crisp instead of becoming filthy black city snow, I am finding the pause restful. I am still looking forward to cotton soft skies, unfurling leaves, and the waking of the land, but for once, I don't have that cooped up restlessness. I can wait for it. I can enjoy the season of now.
As I rock my son, swaddled in his blanket, with his chubby pink cheeks and soft baby hair, and listen to him tell me baby secrets, I have a rare moment of peace with the season of my life too. I am excited for the season of mobile kids: no nursing and naps tethering us to home, times of camping, and bonfires, and first wobbly steps, but I can wait for that. I can rest here, drinking in baby skin and a son who doesn't wriggle away from kisses.
I wish I was like this more often; better at sucking every ounce of joy from each day, like a kid licking Popsicle sticky fingers. I wish a held the secret to unhurried joy. But I have it now, like a February snowflake on my tongue. I will taste it while it lasts, and smile at the memory when it goes.
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