Pregnancy-tired. Snow-day-tired. Full and warm and slow and sleepy all of the time. Like a bear overdue for hibernation. Not that drained, thin, anemic tired, but the way you feel at the end of the day when you’re doing good, hard, valuable work.
More than two feet of snow on the ground, and possibly another foot due over the weekend. More snow than we’ve had since, I think, the year we moved to Massachusetts. Great white drifts making dunes of the yard, front and back. Our neighborhood roads are slippery with ice and slush.
I’ve been barred from shoveling, and I only bring wood in on the very rare days when my husband forgets to stock us up the night before, but there is grammar to edit and there are links to fix. Laundry to do and bread to make. It’s perfect knitting weather, but I’ve not knit a stitch since finishing Thomas’s scarf on Christmas Eve. I’ve spent the occasional time, when curled up on the futon for a stolen hour with the husband, stitching a little alphabet sampler that’s been in my possession since before there was a Thomas, and even more forbidden, staying up late, past child and spouse and dog, to play the music I loved in college and work on the quilt intended for the baby.
And there are always the mornings. Mornings are for mothering. For potty time and breakfast and building the fire. For walking outside to stave off everyone’s cabin fever and keeping an eye on a little boy as he imitates the dog, climbing over the drifts and rolling down “hills.” For laundry and lunch-making and “Mama, let’s read the bird book together,” and “More iron and wine. More. I hear the banjo! They have a banjo.” For trying to keep hold of my patience as the world moves at toddler speed.
Another full moon past. Two more to the equinox. Two more to baby number two.