I’m convinced March and August are the absolute worst months out of the year.
The first is a month that sounds like it’s supposed to be spring. Can we all just agree that March, April, and May are spring months? (June, July, and August get summer, September, October, and November claim fall, while December, January, and February are clearly winter. This is basic science and logic.) Apparently Mother Nature is not on board, since she often sends blizzards of snow in late March just to remind us of where we all live. By that point, the snow isn’t magical anymore. It’s something to survive. We’re all sick of the sixth straight month of living in the same few square feet of space and the sibling fights become truly epic.
And August. I just can’t with August. It’s too hot. I don’t like stepping outside and immediately sweating. All the summer activities have ended, but the fall ones have yet to begin. It makes for a very long month. I’m over the whole sunscreen thing. I don’t want to wear shorts and tank tops. I’m also sick of coming up with no-cook meal ideas because who wants to cook when it’s 97 degrees outside? Nobody, that’s who.
Now listen, lest you think I’m the grumpiest mom ever, let me tell you that I’m a great beginning-of-season parent. The first real days where it smells like summer or hints at the chill of winter? I am freaking fantastic. My mom game is on point in May and October.
We kick off the first snowfall by drinking hot chocolate. With marshmallows. We watch Frozen as our landscape transforms, even if it’s only a little white dusting across the grass. I drink hot tea again. I break our day into a routine complete with designated snack, art, and quiet times. The fireplace is turned on, our warmest blankets are pulled out, and we are a hunker-down-in-this-house, hygge machine.
And May? How freeing is the first day we’re able to set the pool up in the backyard? It might only be 73 degrees outside, but you can bet we’ll be out there all afternoon. I give myself a fresh pedicure and wear sandals. I shave my legs. We stock the freezer with ice cream and freezees and refresh our collection of chalk. We hit up all the best local parks. I apply sunscreen and bug spray to the kids before every trip outside and then remember to re-apply it.
By the time March rolls around, we watch Frozen for the third time in a week because we’re in our fifth month of winter and I am over it. As far as I’m concerned, the snow should have melted a solid three weeks ago and I’m ready to wear anything on my feet that doesn’t belong in the boot category. Any snow flurry or single-digit temperature sends me into the deepest tailspin of mental anguish. Gone are our days of routine and structure and I point-blank refuse to turn on the fireplace. Out of principle. Godspeed children. I’ll toss you some Goldfish over the side of the couch and watch as you bicker yourselves to death.
In August, I pray for the pool to pop a hole. I’m sick of filling it up, dumping it out, remembering to move it around every few days so it doesn’t kill the grass. I refuse to buy more freezees since there’s no way we’ll go through the pack of approximately 342 before the weather turns cool again. Shaving my legs is stupid, sunscreen is stupid, and sweating through my shirt is, again, stupid.
So. If you see me around, I’m at my worst right about now. I want nothing more than to walk outside without a jacket, wear flats, see grass and pavement again, and grill the first burgers of the season. I have zero patience for all that white stuff outside. Or for my children. Send me all the lattes and keep me in your thoughts and prayers.
Fellow March-hating mamas, please remember that April is just around the corner. (Barring any mid-April snowstorms, which DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT THIS YEAR MINNESOTA OR I SWEAR I AM DONE WITH YOU.) We will limp along from now until the time it takes for the temperature to rise consistently above 50 degrees and stay there. We are going to be the world’s most stellar moms soon, sometime in about the next three to eight weeks, don’t you forget that. Our time is coming. And in the meantime, there’s always Netflix.