Speaking of fashion, two separate and distinct things have been happening around here that tell me it’s time for the weather to change.

This is not my child but their pouts are similar . . .

This is not my child but their pouts are similar . . .

First is Philip’s meltdowns he’s had the last four mornings in response to a simple question he asks, namely, “Will it by cold or warm today?”  Sadly the answer has been “Cold.” each time and each time there has been much weeping and gnashing of teeth.  How dare the weather!  How dare we!  What are we doing standing around like it doesn’t matter?!  Change something!  Of course, Max has been helpful each time by chiming in that Grandpa wears shorts even when it’s cold.  So far I’ve held my tongue about something being wrong with Grandpa.  Anyway, it’s been a wrestling match and battle of the wills to get Philip dressed and then he stretches and pulls at his clothes to get them to expose as much skin as possible.  As much as I want to strangle him for mutilating his wardrobe, I feel his pain.


I have been inundated with spring catalogues, hawking their pretty wares which I pore over, ignoring the fact that I am too large and round to wear any of them and that my yard is buried under 8 inches of snow.  Or perhaps that’s precisely why I find them so tempting.  At 33 weeks pregnant, it’s been a looooong haul and I am becoming very tired of my maternity duds.  I crave change – a fact that I think God naturally gives mothers at this stage so they aren’t quite so freaked out about the impending arrival of their blessing.  I also desire spring so, so badly.

Each year, February and March are the longest months because while my world is cold and brown, I know spring is arriving in all of it’s pomp and smells in CA.  It’s beyond heartbreaking.  This year, in addition to the winter doldrums, I heard plenty about February being the worst month for homeschooling, so I psyched myself out and feel like we came through swimmingly.  But now it’s March and . . . bleh.  It feels as if spring and Easter and this baby will never come.

At any rate, I am as anxious as Philip to wear different clothes, perhaps bare a little more skin.  I try not to shrink at the thought that I won’t be shrinking for a loooong while yet.  I remember with Max that Mom warned me about how my body would be immediately after birth.  I heard her own tale about how she had brought her favorite pre-pregnancy outfit to the hospital wen I was born and was devastated and humiliated when she couldn’t get it on.  “Be ye forewarned!!!” was the ominous tone she used.  I should have listened but didn’t, opting instead to bring my baggiest “normal” clothes.  She was right and I was embarrassed.  With Philip, born in the heart of February, I wisely and cheerfully packed a favorite maternity outfit, determined to feel good about myself.  And with Tess, well, I didn’t even try, opting to leave the hospital in jammies.  For that reason I’m a little concerned that come April I may just be wheeled out in my hospital gown and robe.

So I continue to console Philip and console myself with images of Spring Fashion, willing and wishing for change.