Spring Fever

It's here.

That magical time of year when you start noticing things like how warm the sun is, how good it smells outside, how dirty sparkly your windows are.

Magazines arrive in your mailbox with bright yellow daffodils on the front.

You find yourself searching for "strawberry planters" on Google.

You sit on your swing in the backyard with the wonderful, scratchy, dead grass under your feet, the nice warm sun beaming down, with a nice, thick sweater covering your under-belly-of-a-fish-colored arms.

You start talking to your four-year-old about swimming pools, and sprinklers, and new backyard toys. You  instantly begin to regret talking to your four-year-old about swimming pools, and sprinklers, and new backyard toys.

You  find yourself randomly looking at racks of flip-flops while wearing winter shoes.

You debate the merits of starting yet another windowsill herb garden, given last year's spectacular failure.

You might even begin to consider making the loved (but hated) trip to the park so your kids can swing and slide to their heart's content, or until they get sufficient slide-burns on their legs, or someone falls off the swinging bridge; whichever comes first.

You wonder if you should check out some books on local gardening, even though you've never grown anything successfully in this wretched soil.

You remind yourself it is the soil's fault.
Or the cat's fault.
Or the fire ants' fault.
And when all else fails: the drought of last summer's fault.

Even though you didn't plant anything outside last summer.

Yes, my lovelies, it's that time of year.

Time to dig out your Windex and Coppertone.
Time to stare intently at the bare trees and patches of dirt and will something green to start sprouting.
Time to plant hopes, grow failures, and decide, amongst the piles of murdered young herbs,  to categorize it as a "partial success." (snicker)

Spring is coming.