Stir Crazy

I have long been a fan of the month of March. Maybe it stems from a fascination with the grade-school description that it "comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb." March brings the promise of spring and if not daffodils peeking up through ground, certainly at least the grocery store variety popping up on the shelves in the produce section of a supermarket near you. Plus, a March snow will never stay on the ground long (though you may need to remind me of my optimism on Wednesday night after our as of yet unpredictable "significant snow event.")

David does not share my appreciation for the month, however. We have a calendar hanging on the inside of our front door (doesn't everyone?) and each morning as we are waiting for the bus we talk about the weather and what day it is, a part of our routine since school started in August. David has gladly tolerated every month until March when he expressed his disdain on the very first day of the month. In David's opinion, the tag for March has no place on our calendar. After his initial attempts to destroy the label were thwarted by yours truly, he now allows me to hold it up to the calendar until we are finished, at which point he proclaims, "I put it away" and slides it back onto the hallway bookshelf.

Maybe David, too, is tired of winter. It is putting it mildly to say that he is not the easiest person to take on errands, so he spends many of his weekend hours cooped up in the house. That must be difficult for him after his highly scheduled weekdays, especially when it is too cold to don his dinosaur galoshes and troop around the backyard racing my garden carts down the hill.

He finally hit his breaking point yesterday. When he put his clothes on for the day he asked me, "Go get a haircut?" At the time, I laughed and thought that he must be desperate because although it is a frequent Saturday morning activity, it is certainly not his favorite thing to do. After I reminded him to go to the bathroom, he asked, "Go to church?" and later in the morning decided to go for broke, "Go Cago?" which is his name for Chicago, last summer's vacation destination.

Not having received the affirmative answer he was anticipating, David decided to take matters into his own hands and I later looked up to find him ready to go, wearing his pool shoes without socks, coat zipped up to the chin, which is still a difficult task for him. With his hat perched on top of his head, he said goodbye to me. When I asked him where he was going, he answered, "I going to Granny's houch."

I think he would have walked the more than three miles to my parents' house if I had let him, but instead I called them to see if we could come over for lunch. They had been out running errands and were headed to a nice lunch downtown, but when I told them about David's pronouncement, I think I heard the tires squealing from one-hundred blocks away as they made the U-turn and sped back to the house.