Today is Good Friday, but in Daddyland it is Easter, and I mean that in no religious sense, but in the sense that Easter is about spring, about rebirth, about the coming of the sun, the moment when the days in Sweden are longer than the rest of the world, not shorter.
If you want to extend the holy week metaphor, we had Good Friday a couple days ago, when the spring vanished in a freezing fog, sending us reeling, back to January, searching for any signs that this stubborn winter was not returning.
It wasn’t. Today the sun came out. Today the snow had melted, leaving behind gravel and dog poop and trash, but also grass and sand and pine cones. Today both kids played outside, while E and I stood on the side of the sandbox and drank coffee out of pink plastic cups.
It was a revelation on more than one level. It reminded me that we have more than our small space – which I knew intellectually but could not feel anymore – that we live near all these parks, that the kids do not have to be engaged on the living room floor (I actually felt guilty when they played by themselves in the sandbox, not grateful, but worried that I neglected them. Talk about a twisted winter.)
And it was a revelation of my kids, of Baby B who last crawled on the ground in Arizona two months ago. He walked. He dug in the sand. He seemed freed in some way, almost like he developed a month’s worth in those two hours.