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  1. Oh, February, How I Loathe Thee

    Tuesday, February 21, 2012

    You didn't think I would forget, did you? Yes, it's that time of year...February. That sneaky month that only looks short on the calendar, but in actuality lasts forever. "Maybe this year will be different," I thought. I even let myself get excited for Valentines Day. And then I had to greet Valentines Day upon its midnight entrance with a puking toddler. Happy frickin' Valentines Day. I hate you, February.

    "They say that February is the shortest month, but you know they could be wrong.

    Compared, calendar page against calendar page, it looks to be the shortest, all right. Spread between January and March like lard on bread, it fails to reach the crust on either slice. In its galoshes - and you'll never catch February in stocking feet - it's a full head shorter than December, although in leap years, when it has growth spurts, it comes up to April's nose.

    However more abbreviated than its cousins it may look, February feels longer than any of them. It is the meanest moon of winter, all the more cruel because it will masquerade as spring, occasionally for hours at a time, only to rip off its mask with a sadistic laugh and spit icicles into every gullible face, behavior that grows quickly old.

    February is pitiless, and it is boring. That parade of red numerals on its page adds up to zero: birthdays of politicians, a holiday reserved for rodents, what kind of celebrations are those? The only bubble in the flat champagne of February is Valentine's Day. It was no accident that our ancestors pinned Valentine's Day on February's shirt: he or she lucky enough to have a lover in frigid, antsy February has cause for celebration, indeed.

    Except to the extent that it 'tints the buds and swells the leaves within,' February is as useless as the extra r in its name. It behaves like an obstacle, a wedge of slush and mud and ennui, holding both progress and contentment at bay.

    James Joyce was born in February, as was Charles Dickens and Victor Hugo, which goes to show that writers are poor at beginnings, although worse at knowing when to stop.

    If February is the color of lard on rye, its aroma is that of wet wool trousers. As for sound, it is an abstract melody played on a squeaky violin, the petty whine of a shrew with cabin fever. O February, you may be little but you're small! Were you twice your tiresome length, few of us would survive to greet the merry month of May."

    Tom Robbins - "Jitterbug Perfume"

    P.S. It's a leap year. An extra day or slush and mud and ennui for all!

  2. I Am Toad

    Thursday, February 16, 2012

    Sophie has way too many books. Don't tell my husband that I have admitted this. There is something about children's books that I cannot resist. I get pangs of guilt when I think about buying myself new clothes or things for the house, but books for Sophie is a rare guilt-free zone for me. (A) They are for her. (B) They promote literacy and learning when we read them together. Yes, I should go to the library more, but...wait a minute...no, this is my one guilt-free zone and I'm ruining it. Bottom line - Sophie has a lot of books.

    Some of these are recent publications. We have fallen in love with Karma Wilson's and Jane Chapman's Bear Snores On series. We also love Little Blue Truck by Alice Schertle and Jill McElmurry. Other of our favorites are oldies but goodies. It's so much fun to read books to Sophie that that I loved as a child. One such favorite is the Frog and Toad series by Arnold Lobel. When reading "The List" from Frog and Toad Together, however, I came to a startling realization.

    "The List" is about Toad making a list of the things he needs to get done (a very smart idea) and checking them off as he completes each task (again, such a wise toad). He even writes down "Wake Up," which he has obviously already done, and immediately crosses it off of his list (OK, so toad may be a little OCD). Toad eats his breakfast (gets to cross that off of the list), walks to Frog's house (another activity checked off), and then takes a long walk with Frog. Toad has just crossed "Take walk with Frog" off of his list (I'm kind of jealous at this point, to be honest) when this happens...

    Just then there was a strong gust of wind. It blew the list out of Toad's hand. The list blew high up into the air.

    "Help!" cried Toad. "My list is blowing away. What will I do without my list?"

    "Hurry!" said Frog. "We will run and catch it."

    "No!" shouted Toad. "I cannot do that."

    "Why not?" asked Frog.

    "Because." wailed Toad, "Running after my list is not one of the things that I wrote on my list of things to do!"

    Yep, right there. That's when it hit me. I am Toad. Sigh.

    The blessing and curse that is my list (OK, who am I kidding, lists) will surely be material for a later post. Right now, I'm going to go check "blogging" off of my to-do list.