It's that time of year when the sun shines more and the snow falls less. It's that time when making lunches becomes almost unbearable. It's that time when kids get restless and go outside for longer and come inside calmer. The kids are dirtier but happier and they talk about summer more. It's that time when the bikes come out and the helmuts don't fit and the tires need air but it totally doesn't matter because those kinds of things don't matter to the young. Their winter hair needs a shave and their spring jackets look too small. They always smell like metal and sweat.
It's that time of year when I get sick of school meetings and fundraisers and wondering what to feed them in their ever hated lunches. It's that time when I start praying that they will just eat meat and cheese for a few more weeks before the sight of it makes them gag. It's that time when making the kids go to school seems almost fruitless.
It's that time when the man goes to work earlier and comes home later. When we start to miss him and thus, start to long for autumn and earlier night skies. It's that time when he gets tanned and beautiful from being outside all day long.
It's that time when lecturing the 5 year old about her duties gets tiresome and redundant. "First and foremost," I explain to her perfect pout, "your job is to go to school and learn."
"I hate learning. It isn't fun. I don't even get to play with the toys until centre time and that takes forever. I hate school. I don't want to go." It appears she thinks this is a negotiation.
"I don't care if you don't want to go." This statement comes after months of trying to reason patiently and lovingly with this perfect, pudgy, delicious child of my womb. "I simply do not care anymore. Your job is to go. So you go. You can choose to go happily or can choose to go mad. But you are going. Do you understand me?"
"Yes. But I still hate it."
"Cuz there is no movie time and no nap time." She goes to school from nine until eleven fifty in the morning. You'd think it was a twelve hour gig with all the carrying on she does about it.
"But, Amelia, you don't even nap at home so why would you want to nap at school?"
"Cuz, mom," exasperation in it's purest form, "I'm not tired at home!"
It's that time when if she asks me one more time how many days are left of school this week I might conveniently bang my head against a wall.
She is her father's daughter. He hated kindergarten as well.
It's that time when I start daydreaming about lakes and tents and living out of coolers for weeks on end. When sand in my ears and other unmentionable places becomes my reality. And I love it.
I want so very much to look forward to this summer but it has become very apparent to me that my timeline is not the same as the powers that be.
It would seem, the duration of time it takes to teach me patience, in which this particular lesson began in April of 2009, is not yet over. The lesson is not quite learned and I must press on. I can not, therefore, make my summer plans and dream of lakes and beaches with the sweet sense of anticipation that usually accompanies it. Instead, I get to yearn for it while I wait for my unsell-able house to sell.
The time for convenient, simplistic change is getting shorter and shorter, as is my fuse. But I can not force anything to happen. I must wait and learn my slow lesson of patience.
So, I wait. Until it becomes that time that lessons are learned. Houses are sold. Moving is done. And life carries on.
Right now is not that time and I, begrudgingly, accept it.