It has been raining basically non-stop for almost a week here. It’s gray and dreary. The temperature hasn’t hit 50 degrees yet today, which makes the fact that our summer vacation starts in three weeks seem rather improbable. The kids are almost out of school for the summer and we’ve had maybe three days so far this spring where they could wear shorts. I know I live, happily!, in Minnesota and that we aren’t exactly known for having toasty weather, but I’m beginning to fear that we’ll be able to grow rice in our basement soon.
(Can I just say that “worrying about the dampness of our basement” is item #458 on my list entitled “Ways in Which Being a Grown-Up is Boring”?)
As someone who grew up in the desert and who was scared SHITLESS as a kid by an episode of Highway to Heaven that feature a future with major water shortages, I’m hard wired to believe that rain is a Good Thing. I actually don’t really even mind the gray and the dark. I’m a little annoyed with myself for giving into premature gardening enthusiasm* and spending five hours last week putting down seeds that are now very likely to going to need to be replanted, but that is more my fault than the weather, I suppose.
(*#367 on the list of ways in which being a grown-up is boring: the amount of emotional investment and willingness to talk at length about gardening, even if one is, at best, a very half-assed gardener)
It’s just that I find it ridiculous that I am expected to keep having to do things and, you know, actually parent my children in these current conditions.
All I want to do is stay in bed and read a book, preferably while eating a large bowl of buttery popcorn. I’d get out of bed to bake things that are carby and sweet and to see if I can get one of the kids to come snuggle and watch Harry Potter with me. Sadly the one who is always up for a snuggle is too young for Harry Potter and my Harry Potter appropriate aged one is allergic to snuggling these days. He is made up of nothing but elbows and knees and is only physically capable of being still for 3.4 seconds before he is flopping around like a fish and demanding to be wrestled with. This is the same child who sets his alarm on the weekends for 6:30am so he doesn’t accidentally sleep in. I love him but he is clearly broken.
Maybe I should go make some hot chocolate and take a nap.