September 23, 2009.

Almost nine months ago.

Yes, it has actually been almost nine months since that wonderful, glorious day. Nine very long months.

Do you all remember September 23? I don't, not particularly, since I didn't know it would have such meaning to me now. One of those lasts that you don't know is slipping by until it's gone and you suddenly realize how desperately you have missed it.

I just can't believe it has been nine months since the last day our area reached 75 degrees.

We had a very early spring. Many of you may remember the Olymipcs, which were about thirty miles from our house, and how it was so warm that they had refrigeration units under the snow that they had to bring in from another mountain to keep it somewhat close to frozen. It was about fifty degrees then, and here, on the first day of summer, it was about six degrees warmer.

We've had a few nice days here and there, making us believe that summer is coming. But those days are just lies, cruel tricks dangled before us like a carrot on a stick in front of a treadmill. I enjoyed 73 degree weather the day before my birthday, on the first day of spring. We have had a few warmer ones, where our wet, soppy, rusty, soaked into a pruney mess skin starts sweating in the massive 68 degree heat because we are not used to it at all. But those days never come two at a time. One nice day leads to another week of rain, wet, windy, cold, dreary grey skies and one mother of four in particular who end up curled up in the fetal position on the bathroom floor as the children run wildly through the house, massive amounts of pent up energy creating a frenzy of fighting, yelling, fighting, screaming, fighting, and getting into things they shouldn't.

Like the markers.

And the knife drawer.

I am all about sending my kids outside in the cold, but their pants are too short and their long sleeve shirts are worn thin. Their winter coats were getting a bit small back in February, but thinking that spring was on it's way, I figured we were fine. Little did I know that winter would continue for months and months.

And months.

I strongly object to letting the kids back in the house after forty minutes of playing, shedding layers and layers of sopping wet, muddy clothing on the entryway floor and donning more layers and layers of clothing to go back out again, after hot chocolate and cozying up with a blanket to warm up.

In June.

My laundry pile is overwhelming as the kids are going through five full-sized outfits (including the dreaded socks) a day. Their tennis shoes are too tight, but I was planning on having them in sandals all summer and not having to buy new tennis shoes till fall.

I am truly a summer girl. I love shorts and tank tops, sandals and cutely painted toes. I hate socks with a passion. I strongly dislike using the furnace in June. I am very sad that I got my garden planted right before the wettest two week stretch on record for our dry season, drowning all my seeds so that nothing grew.

I need the sun. I need vitamin D, and the pure joy that comes from getting out of bed and walking through the kitchen to see sunlight streaming through the skylight, pooling on the kitchen floor in a delightfully warm, sunny spot of joy. I love the kids' hair when it bleaches out in the sun, transforming my dirty-blonde children into shining, happy kids with halos of golden hair.

I know, I night be a bit over-dramatic here. But seriously, I need summer to get here, and fast. And I needed that rant. I certainly feel better now, thanks for listening. That is, if you actually did read all the way to the end, which I greatly doubt since I was just complaining this entire post. For those of you who did suffer through my rant and are still with me here, I appreciate you. Would you pray for some sun for me? I really need it to maintain the tiny little sliver of sanity that I have left. Thanks.