almost? maybe? spring?

Before I jump in, take a moment to wave hello/hug/sit with Brenda: her son was just diagnosed with hemophilia. Over the phone, by the way - which means that she didn't get the hug, or the reassuring physical presence of the people who are there to help. The folks who make it possible for you to breathe, or find the normal under the shreds of the world you thought you had.

Seriously, people: over the phone. Oy.

But I digress.

After two warm, let's hit the playground after school days, I am willing to admit that - maybe - there are hints of spring. Note the qualifier, however - in New England, spring is a nebulous business. Still, I've sent in my seedling orders to the lovely folks here, and have begun perusing some marvellous garden porn. Oh. My. Gah. I want to plant it ALL.

But I'll settle for some cukes, lots of herbs, lettuces grown in the shade of peas and vining cukes, and the boys' favorite: carrots. Dang, but I want to start now. Still, wise and patient soul that I am, I know that the past two Mother's Day have come with frost. So.

We're settling for sprouting indoors, and bouncing - no, jumping - out of doors. Spring up, sprout, shoot up, stretch and bounce. The Toddles, ankles showing, is sprouting in classic style. And, given his anti-haircut platform, also in non-classic style:

With any luck, the fresh beans in our jar will imitate him, echoing my precious seedlings. Three kinds of cherry tomatoes, three kinds of heirloom tomatoes, sage, oregano, genovese basil, and the smell of rich dirt under my nails. The determined curls of green stuff, stretching in the warm sun, unfurling...it's tantalizing.

More pragmatic than I, or perhaps less bletheringly lyric, the Eldest is using his bounce and zing to demonstrate why, exactly, I would really, really like a jump-rope for my next birthday.

bounce, bounce, bounce, went the boy, solemn and flying. A small girl, thumb in her mouth, paused to watch. And happily, refrained from comment. But had she, I think she should have said:

go Eldest, go - go Eldest, get yer groove on, get yer jump on - go Eldest.

Hanging mid-air, the kid looks remarkably peaceful. It feeds my determination to make peace with his bounce and zoom, the flip of his internal speedometer from 15 mph to 87, the blur that follows a bounce. Because, as a wise friend suggested, maybe he needs it.

Looking at him here, it's inarguable. Looking at them both (currently wrapped around each other in a slightly cranky and heavily elbowed ow! hey, gerroff my weinie! who farted? boy-tangle), it's wonderful and chaotic and thank heavens, headed for bed soon. Because all of that motion and sprout - anticipated and otherwise - is exhausting.

But makes for a peaceful, giggling bedtime.