Seasonal Anxieties

Spring is the most confusing and conflicted season. It is all about rebirth, hope, resurrection. The flowers bloom, the birds chirp – the trees have those bright-green-almost-yellow baby leaves, which are so much better than the overgrown, humid foliage of July and August. And yet, because spring is so wonderful, I can’t help but angst about its passing. I have this unrelenting anxiety that I am not appreciating the season enough. Jean jacket weather – the perfect weather – should result in capitalizing on outdoor time. I should take my time to appreciate bulbs popping and squirrels frolicking. And yet my responsibilities don’t change seasonally. I’m still my family’s chauffeur, stuck in a car or in my kitchen, listening to Daniel Tiger in the background, which is not the same as the wind swishing in the trees. And when we are outside taking advantage of this fleeting season, I am more often than not my kids’ personal playground food truck, covered in peanut butter and goldfish, worrying about it getting too hot and missing the chance to finally teach the 6-year-old to ride his bike…

I was not prepared for seasonal allergies this year. Pollen and Covid are not happy bedfellows. I assumed spring would ease the tension in the air, but instead the cherry blossoms have turned the streets of DC into my own personal battlefield. Every sneeze and sniffle signals danger, justifying a reason to cross the street or leave the playground…

Have you heard of Brood X? The name speaks for itself. Every 17 years these giant cicadas dig their way up and emerge from the surface of the earth where they then proceed to shed their shells before they fly away and mate. The grounds of the city will be littered with their skins, creating an inescapable crunch beneath our feet wherever we go. And aren’t we lucky? 2021 is the year.

Published by imworriedmytherapisthatesme

I'm a history-PhD-turned-stay-at-home-mom of three. When I'm not microwaving Trader Joe's meals for my kids, breaking up fights and wiping butts, I like to paint and write. To cope with the endless hours I'm spending with my son doing virtual school, I've abandoned my gouache paints for the more portable, less messy tried but true, paper and ink. While he learns to read to 20 floating heads on his screen, I sit on a tiny chair, at a tiny table pretending to be a productive adult.

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