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Spring
February. I’m not much of an out-of-doors person in the winter. I used to be, but by the time I hit the teen years of my life having winter fun was so grotty. Show me a 1960s teenager who wanted to cover up their mod-fashions with a bulky overcoat and a pair of galoshes and I’ll show you a person who wasn’t mod. I shiver when I think of the number of times I tiptoed through the snowdrifts in my chunky suede shoes to catch a Red Rocket to school. I was convinced everyone who was anyone would be looking at my footwear, my patterned tights and my short skirts. How I suffered for fashion in the ’60s. By the seventies, I hadn’t really learned much but I was married and less inclined to ruin a pair of shoes on a salty street when I had better things to spend my hard-earned money on—like tuition, books and rent. Still, I didn’t exactly bundle up against the elements. It wasn’t like I had to dog-sled to work or to school. I was still a patron of the TTC.
By the time LOML and I had moved to the County, I’d pretty much given up looking like a fashion plate. Having children will do that to a person. I was thrilled to own a pair of styling boots, purchased at a farm equipment store and was prone to wearing the type of jacket LOML and I referred to as a “Hydro Parka”. By that time, we were more established in our new home away from the city. The scheduling I did as a career women in Toronto wasn’t really much help getting kids out of the house in the morning. Products didn’t have to be encouraged to finish their cereal and brush their teeth. And, I didn’t have time to follow the latest trends in Chatelaine magazine. As our kids filed out the door for school, each kid had to be checked for weather-appropriate footwear, hats, mitts, jackets, scarves. Next, I did the once-over for lunches, books, homework and signed-by-theparent permission forms. The thing I had time to do for myself—before we rushed out to the school bus stop—was slam on a pair of boots, grab any old parka and make sure I had the house keys in my pocket. Like a lot of moms, I had put in a full day’s work before the #614 bus showed up at the corner. I certainly didn’t have time to play in the snow when I got back to the house, either. Usually, as I trudged back to the house, I often dreamed about running away from home in the County and getting back to the high-life as a woman without children. I knew the minute I walked through the door I’d be faced with breakfast dishes, sandwich crusts, a pile of dirty laundry, unmade or half-made beds, dusting, vacuuming, books that needed to go back to the library, and paying the bills. Because I was a stay-at-home mom for several years, I was also one of the moms who got calls to babysit, sometimes at the last moment. Sometimes I wasn’t just schlepping my kids out the door. Occasionally, I had an extra toddler in tow.
Those were the days. February still makes me think back on those times with mixed feelings. In the seventies and eighties, a few of us were at-home-moms. (A big shout-out to all of you.) If we did go out during the day, it was to the grocery store, to a friend’s house to drop-and-swap children’s clothing and occasionally enjoy a cup of coffee and a bit of gossip. But the countdown clock to children returning from school was always ticking, and dinner didn’t make itself. February was the appetizer for springtime. We all had springtime thoughts of how simple life was going to be without cramming a kid into a snowsuit, looking for un-soggy mittens and dry boots.
As much as I try, February (with the exception of the chocolatey goodness of Valentine’s Day) is a dreary month. Bring on promising March. Bring on hopeful April. I need a break from snow, snow, cold, cold, tissues all over the place and more of the same. I’m going to buy an unsensible pair of shoes and dream about spring!
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