Dedicated to Jeanne, who hates February more than anyone I know.
I don’t mind February. It’s short month, even in leap year. Plus it’s got my birthday, a silly holiday (Groundhog’s Day), a federal holiday (Presidents’ Day) and a sappy commercial holiday (Valentine’s Day). February makes no promises about warmer weather, or sunnier days, you’ll hear no talk of plants starting to grow, or at least not usually. February deals you a straight hand—it’s winter, you’ll get snow or sleet or ice, or maybe cold, dreary rain. You won’t get false promises about spring coming in, or warmer weather or even very many sunny days. February plays it straight.
March is a different story. March is supposed to roar in like a lion and go out like a lamb thus leading to lovelier spring weather. Nonsense. What we get is more cold, dreary rainy weather and maybe snow too. Tiny little plants that may have finally poked through the ground run a real risk of getting blasted by frost here in New England or covered by a blanket of snow. And we have to put up with this month for thirty-one days. Then it’s April, where we’ll get slightly less cold dreary weather for another 30 days. Spring doesn’t show up around here until May, if we’re lucky.
Yes, yes, both my children were born in March and those are very good events to celebrate. They do help ease the pain (and honestly when they were born, I was too distracted by being a new mother to feel the full misery of March), but now that they are grown, it’s not like I can even really throw them a fun birthday party or anything. Nope, I get to suffer through the endless dreary month of March with no distractions. And don’t offer up St. Patrick’s Day either. That’s no holiday, it’s just an excuse for people to drink to numb the pain of this month.
It's raining today (of course), although the rain is supposed to turn to snow by 10 AM and we may get between one and four inches. Whatever, it's March and the weather is just going to stink. I'll be over sitting on the couch with a blanket and a book. Let me know when it's nice outside.
(Interesting useless bit of knowledge I found while tracking down the poem linked above: lamb used to be called spring lamb because you could only get it in the spring.)