I tell you what, February seemed to go on forever.

All through January the Princess had a weird, naggy cough that was otherwise symptom-free.  She went to running club in the rain, AWANA, piano, and everything else with my blessing because she felt fine…just an annoying cough.

Then came February. She hit this month and the cough worsened and grew. As she finally started to shake it, it turned out she was actually a great, hacking, typhoid Mary. Because her baby sister started to cough, and unlike the Princess, Moo felt fully rotten. She is known for a personality that is fiery under normal conditions; now our household was like something out of “When Crabby Dragons Attack.” Brimstone-encrusted craters and baby dolls everywhere. And since she and the Bear are thick as thieves, she was kind enough to share the plague with him. His typical goth-like mood became more like a Marsh-wiggle, only less chipper.

That was the state of things when Mr. MG and I were the final dominoes to fall. NyQuil cocktails, anyone? Make mine a double, with a little thermometer stir stick.

Finally, as last week ground to a close, it looked like the curse would lift. Everyone was getting their energy back and the cough was only an annoyance. Hooray for getting back to life!

Then Friday the Bear woke up and yakked. Poor guy couldn’t even keep water down and was running a 101 temperature. In between washing laundry and ferrying sick buckets around the house I wondered: where did he pick this bug up?!  We hadn’t been able to go anywhere or talk to anyone face to face for days! 

By bedtime, the  fever had broken and food was staying put. Clear skies ahead. Except that Moo woke up barfing all over herself the next day. There is nothing to do at that point but laugh. And pass out more 7-up.

Today everyone woke up feeling well and we were able to stumble outside, zombie-like, for interactions with other humans. I’ll be toasting the new month with an extra-large glass of Emergen-C.

While the rest of the world has been battling unheard-of amounts of snow and cold, here in western Washington, we’ve had the most pleasant winter I can remember. With the exception of a couple of bouts of very snappy (but sunny) cold, it’s been a lovely time.

It’s making it hard to remember what time of year it is, though. Days of playing outside in shirtsleeves and having to mow the lawn don’t shout “February” to me. I don’t have only crocuses coming up, but hyacinths and daffodils, as well. The lilacs are budding so it is obviously not winter anymore.

Which means I want to get busy clearing everything out. Before I was downed with a truly malicious cold, I got a ton of pruning done in the yard. I followed that up with buzz-cutting Emma again. And if you happen by the house, you will probably be forced to take something with you when you leave, because I am tired of the clutter, sick of all the junk that builds up over the winter, and don’t you want some of this crap in your house instead? Boxes that have been unpacked as we settled into living upstairs are now filling back up with stuff to haul off to the thrift store.

I want space! I want clean windows! I want a haircut (not the same one I gave the cat, please), I want fresh air, and I want to open my arms to the season ahead.

I’m feeling springy.

Adult. Isn’t that a loaded word?

Adult entertainment. Adult literature. What does that bring to your mind?

I’m a big believer in exposing our kids to the world in stages. I read The Hobbit to the Princess when she was eight and she fell deeply in love with it; I was thrilled. Less thrilling was sitting on my hands until she was old enough to plunge into the Lord of the Rings trilogy. She pleaded and I said no. Could she have handled it at eight? Probably. But it would not have stolen her, heart and soul, as much as it did this past summer. I dole out Harry Potter at the rate of a book a year. Part of the thrill of the series was waiting feverishly for the next book, and she has the right to that same rush.

What fun would Star Wars be if you’d been watching it from birth? Too young, and they’d never know it was out of the ordinary. But too old, and it will be nothing but silly camp.

There are movies and books that I horde, waiting for the perfect age to launch them into our kids’ heads. Because when the timing is perfect, you get to watch magic right in front of you. I get as much happiness out of it as they do, which is saying something.

Having three kids of radically different ages has made this process even better. A big brother or sister possessing a new storyline (or being possessed by it) gives the thing more mystique than ever. 

Which is how it happened that I found the Princess sneaking my Shakespeare book. And the Bear pitched a fit when he was told that he’d have to get a bit more history under his belt before he could dive into the pile of Asterix comics.

These are the sirens of adulthood that call to them.