In Chicago, we’re being teased. The weather this winter has been more temperate than I can ever remember. New promises of spring surprise us practically every week. My daffodils are emotionally confused.
As a born-and-raised Californian, weather like this makes me inclined to high-five strangers and give money to puppies.
My enthusiasm, apparently, is contagious. My kids share in the giddy eagerness that goes hand in hand with the promise of doing something, anything, that is outside of the house.
We have long since abandoned the idea of skating on the lake; sledding is little more than a distant memory, eclipsed by the unseasonably green hills.
Instead, we have broken out the roller blades and scooters, drawn by the smooth black expanse of our uncharacteristically snow-free driveway. Although the bike paths are muddy and messy, it has not prevented races around the block and trips to the nearby grammar school to take advantage of the swings that are usually too cold to touch.
My son digs out the pogo stick, and suddenly there are impromptu obstacle courses that involve the trampoline, skateboards, and other dangerous combinations that I try not to watch.
I know, in my logical mind, that winter could come back to bite us at any time. It is not unheard of to get 12 inches of snow in March.
But right now, after 15 years in Chicago and what feels like a lifetime of cold, I am embracing Mother Nature’s tentative gift. There will be time to be cold later.
Now we play.















