Wait...

February is a waiting room.  It is a long, dark night.  It is an empty mailbox.  It is home after a vacation, cold while the furnace kicks on and brings life back.  Don't get me wrong; February is chock full of holidays.  Just last week, we had Chinese New Year, Mardi Gras, Valentines Day and Presidents Day, not to mention Tziporah's birthday.  It's not a federal holiday yet, but it will be.  Just wait.

And yet, even with all these fetes, I'm still waiting.  Mostly, I'm waiting for my energy to return.  I am convinced I am biologically wired to hibernate.  This time of year, I long to curl up in my car with the seat warmer on, hot drink in hand and NPR coming in loud and clear.  Or better yet, climb under two down comforters with a stack of books and stay there until swimming pools all over the country are up and running.

So I'm waiting.  In 2005, we were waiting for Xanthe.  We thought we'd get our referral in February, and then...it didn't come.  Is there anything more agonizing?  We ended up driving to Disneyland to stave off the disappointment.  This year feels not quite like that, but it has echoes.  We're waiting for Golda to turn in her mission papers, and then we'll be waiting to see which dot on the map will become her home for a year and a half.  Of lesser importance, we're waiting to start ballet recital dances.  We're waiting to see where Araceli is going to school next year.  Waiting to plan our summer, based on when Golda is leaving.  Waiting out the school year.  Waiting for the inversion to clear.  

I never like to wish my time away, and I enjoy each little day.  Still, there is an expectation in the air of something under wraps, like so many neighbors' front yard fountains, covered in layers of plastic.  It's not time yet for hope to peek through, and that's fine.  February is a snow-covered flower bed, but it's also a nugget underneath the soil, a bulb with a secret inside, and the patience to wait until just the right moment to reveal it.