Calm Before the Storm

3:30 p.m. The boys and I are at the Franklin School playground. The last time we were here, about a month ago, it was so cold that I brought out the woolen blanket from the car and huddled beneath it while the boys ran around. Today it is warm enough for me to use a keyboard.

We're enjoying the clear weather while it lasts. Tomorrow a snowstorm is supposed to hit, dumping anywhere from a foot to two feet of snow on us. How I hate cold weather and snow! And how much of it we have had this winter!

Still, there's something rather exciting about the prospect of such a storm. Wild weather appeals to me...thunderstorms, hurricanes, blizzards. I'm not looking forward to the aftermath--all the shoveling we'll have to do--but I'll enjoy watching the snow come down, at least.

I brought the boys to the playground so that they would have a chance to run around and exercise. We will most likely be housebound for the next few days.

"I want you boys to run around the whole time you are there," Tab ordered them before we left. "Run around until you can't run anymore, then run again." They are doing their best to comply.

I was glad to get away from the house. Tab is going through one of his depressive phases. Sometimes he becomes exceedingly irritable, losing his temper with the boys at the slightest provocation. This is one of his quieter episodes, however. Except for a little yelling, he is keeping his feelings to himself this time. While I'm glad he's not taking it out on the boys, I am still uncomfortably aware of his stony expression and the rigid set of his shoulders.

I believe we are all responsible for our own happiness. So why do I feel it's my responsibility to make him happy?

I get so tired of dealing with these frequent moods. Sometimes I fantasize about leaving him. I picture a quiet apartment with my books and music and cats. I imagine what a relief it would be not to carry the burden of someone else's depression. I would not leave until the boys are grown, however. "Thirteen more years," I tell myself. "The twins will start college, and I can leave." Thirteen years. It sounds like a prison sentence.

On the grass, about ten feet from my table, there are two robins, harbingers of spring. You're too early, guys. Winter is not through with us, yet.

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