I made it to February. Yes, I had cabin fever before, but that's completely different from stir-crazy (because I say it is).
First of all, let's all agree that this is the longest winter ever. Ever. I'm pretty sure I say that every winter, but this time it's for real. Longest. winter. ever. (Until next winter, when it'll be for really reals.)
I am so desperate to get outside. I look for any excuse. Here, Adelaide, let me take that compost bowl out for you! No, no, I'll get the trash, Atticus. And the mail. And anything else that gets me out of this house.
It doesn't help that Atticus has been doing this lately:
That's our five-year-old, shoveling the sidewalk. And he's good at it. And he loves to do it. I let him try it the other day, thinking it'd be like last winter, where he'd shovel for ten minutes, get almost nothing done, then I'd get to take my turn and get some real outdoor exercise. But nope: apparently it's at the age of five when you suddenly come upon the strength and agility to shovel snow (keeping in mind this was only a few inches of light, fluffy snow. But still.).
Thankfully, Atticus is sick today, which means I got to take a turn shoveling. (And by "thankfully," I mean "unfortunately." Mostly.)
There's a scene in one of the Bourne movies (I don't remember which, I think the second or third; I'm sure Derek knows, which is super helpful to you, I know) where Jason Bourne is in Russia for I don't remember what reason, and he's knocking on a door or something, and there's an old lady next door sweeping the snow off her front stoop.
I never really understood why she was doing that; I mean, it's Russia, for heaven's sake. Any snow she sweeps off is going to be immediately replaced the next day, right? Why bother?
But then came this morning, when I spent close to an hour sweeping every last bit of snow off our front porch (for absolutely no reason; no one's going to be sitting on those rocking chairs until spring at least; unless, of course, you're this guy:
otherwise known as Derek-the-Iowa-native), then I shoveled our front sidewalk, which really didn't need to be shoveled at all, given that Derek had cleared it with the snow blower yesterday morning. I was determined to be outside, however, (painfully) breathing in the frigid air as I scraped off the inch of snow the snow blower left behind.
So now I think I understand the Russian lady sweeping her front stoop. (Except I have no idea what it's like to actually live in Russia. Details.) It kind of reminds me of when I was pregnant with Adelaide, and more than anything else my middle of the night cravings were for fresh air. Our neighborhood was relatively safe, but relatively safe isn't really good enough when you want to go for a two am walk, and we usually shrink-wrapped the living room windows for insulation, so I was left to crack the bedroom window just wide enough to force my nose and mouth through the slit, greedily inhaling the winter air, trying not to let the room get so cold it woke Derek up.
Hey, that kind of makes me feel better: I may be going stir-crazy, but at least I'm not pregnant!