Each spring I expect to be ecstatically happy, as the tedium of days inside give way to the wonders of a new spring. However, it seems each year that I just barely make it through the winter, and emerge, pale, irritated and desperate into the long awaited spring days, curiously out of sync with the explosion of life around us. I thought I'd be frolicking, but instead I'm irritable and aware of my own pent up neediness rather than embracing the external moment. I want to sip coffee and chat with adults at the park, not run around and remind my son of how we cooperate and share and use our words. I want to sit and watch him tire himself out, not run with him, or worse yet, fling him in the air in his much beloved rough housing. So our interaction is far from graceful, me (complaining, I mean talking, as rapidly as social custom allows to my fellow adults, and receiving gratifying stories of winter's exhaustion in exchange) ignoring him until he finds some way to make himself unignorable (grabbing the leg and pulling, yelling, getting into a fight, he knows the drill). Then I dash off and play (in the dazzling sunlight, which warms despite my self-pity) for a bit. Then he and a companion find the fun in looking at ants for a while, and I slip back to ask about a pregnancy or tell about a plumber or whatever.
At least we, like the bean plants my son planted at school, are rapidly transforming from our tired winter selves into tan, confident and fun parents again, with sleepy outdoorsy children replacing the irritated, cooped up indoor children of the last few months. (At least my kids get tan; I'm apparently in some radical fringe group that doesn't worry about the sun that much until high summer or until outings that are longer than 4 hours; I feel a bit of a base tan is good protection for the July days, and have never insisted on hats except for myself).
Thank God, I find myself gradually getting caught up on that apparent need of mine to talk to adults, as I get tanner and my son remembers the outdoor playing protocols, and rediscovers the great joy of finding new sticks, rocks and spiders (and continues to explore why we can collect sticks and rocks but not spiders). The tension gradually drains out of the days as the strength returns to our limbs, and we make ready for the great mulberry feast that nature is preparing for us.
See you outside; if I'm staring down with a frown, keep yelling until I glance up and smile a hello.
I don't use that much sunblock on my kids either (and here I am admitting it in public!). Pretty much only when we're near water (ocean, pool, anything that will reflect the sunlight back at us and intensify it). It started out as sloth but I've been reading we do need some sun exposure, more than most people get, so I feel accidentally vindicated. I do need to be more careful with J than N, since she is pretty fair.