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This will pass.

This will pass.

This will pass.

This will…can you PLEASE just do what I’ve asked without being disrespectful to me or annoying to your siblings?  …pass.

This will pass.

It has to.

I’m telling myself this as I load the dishwasher, with dishes that I gathered and cleaned myself, left behind by four rabidly hungry and disastrously messy children who appear to have forgotten what it is to clean up after themselves.

This will pass.

I’m telling myself this, as they scuffle and argue and seem to just be circling each other in their bedroom, taunting, irritating, poking, but decidedly NOT cleaning.

This will pass.

I’m telling myself this as I ask them again, to please not yell. Let’s not be a house that yells. Let’s not be a house that resorts to shutting down communication and puts people into emotional corners by the tone and volume of our voices.

This will pass.

And then, two minutes later, as I clean sticky clementine peels from the kitchen floor, I yell. Again. Because, Alex made Asher come whining to the door of their bedroom again. Because, life. Because, exhaustion. Because, we are in a free fall from Christmas and school vacation, picking up speed on frozen land, heading toward a brilliant, painful, destructive, crash. I just know it.

We are in the moment of terror when you’re sledding over icy snow and you realize that you actually have no control over where (or how) you are going to eventually stop.

This will pass.

We are not frozen here. Though the temperature is negative eight and our fuel lines appear to have seized beneath a blanket of white, and I’m boiling water and running the stove, and moving space heaters from room to room. Though all around us is freezing, we will not.

I just refuse.

This is a moment. It’s our first hard winter of homeschool, of being a family who is always a family and, perhaps, not nearly enough our individual selves.  This is a moment of defiance and growing pains, and figuring out just how the rest of this school year will go.

It is moment and it. will. pass.

It has to.

The question remaining is, will it pass with us happy on the other side, living the next moments of our lives, having grown closer together and not further apart? Or will it end with me in a fetal position with chocolate wrappers around my twitching body?

I’m hoping for the former, always. And I trust that we will get there.

Because, we are not frozen here. Spring always comes.

Spring always comes.


  1. I cannot believe I’m the first one to comment on this. We ALWAYS had cabin fever at my house. It wasn’t so bad when we could get out, but when we were snowed in that got old fast. And we didn’t have TV till Catie was 12 out of some misguided religious conviction I can’t even remember. Sheesh. Anyway, there’s a lot more — or a lot less — to snow days than everyone playing Scrabble around the fire. Not always the highest peak of family life. Thank you for your transparency.

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