I sit on the couch, my little snotter-rella curled up in my lap. The sky is that slate grey that precedes the dawn. I know I should get up and write but she is warm and cuddley and not quite ready to start the day. And either am I.
I don’t usually get SAD. I don’t mind the cold. Sunny Winter days are one of my favourite dressings for Melbourne, when the steam huffs from my lips and the air feels clean and pure. But this winter is different. I have been sick through the whole thing, my nose and throat taking turns complaining the most, with a week of my congested chest entering the competition. The kids don’t want to go outside, even though I know they need the fresh air almost as much as I do. So me and the not-yet-able-to-consciously-object one go out during television time, as she babbles in all her layers on a mat and I walk laps around the outdoor table and swing-set.
It has been a winter where I have 1000 balls in the air, and a few falling to the ground with a splat. Appointments and applications and emails and- oh wait, did I make that payment? I am that unfortunate personality combination of scatterbrained and conscientious. I believe in being reliable, but my life rarely lets me reach my own high standards. I spend far too much time mourning the stains on the floor.
It has been a winter of tiredness. Not the mind-numbing tiredness of non-sleeping twins. A nefarious tiredness that you don’t know you feel, that makes you irritable and down, but you blame everything else in your life except the late nights and early mornings.
Yesterday I managed to get a hesitant young-man out the door for five minutes. “I want to see the flowers. Let’s go out long enough to see the flowers.” Cherry-blossoms, cascading down it’s willow-like branches, a water-fall of pink perfume. Is it just me or do the blossoms come out earlier every year? I lifted him up so he could catch the scent, before we returned to the cocoon of bricks and central heating.
I like winter, but I love spring. Different flowers making an appearance each week. European branches reclaiming the title of green. It’s not always warm, but there is an air of excitement as I scroll the weeks weather. Ups and downs and occasional twenties, instead of the endless parade of “cloudy top of 12, cloudy top of 12, cloudy top of 12.”
“The sky is white, it is morning time!” Sometimes I forget that Miss Three can’t tell time. That when we get up in the dark she doesn’t know how close we are until the dawn. But it is here- streaks of blue through the white. Rumours of showers and 14 were greatly exaggerated.
I wipe both our noses and we get off the couch, ready to start the day.
It is still winter. But it won’t always be.