Seasons

Cookie season has started. I have been Cookie Mom for the past three years and I volunteered again this year. My eldest loves Girl Scouts and I love who they are in Girl Scouts, so I handle cookies. I pick up the orders for the entire troop and dole them out as needed. I write receipts for cookies and cookie money and pick where our troop will have booths. I make sure our booths have enough cookies. Then I take my child from door to door and business to business so she can sell cookies.

Last year they sold 500 boxes of cookies. This year they are less than enthused about selling cookies, which they blames in part on her diagnosis of Celiac disease. Since they can no longer eat cookies, they don't want to sell them they say. I understand, but I don't. Cookie sales aren't about the cookies, they are about a way to earn your troop money to do cool things. Cookie sales are about earning money for the council to be able to send girls who can't afford it to camp. So I am disappointed that they aren't excited about cookie sales because it is something they used to love. I am disappointed because it was something we did together. I am questioning my commitment to helping girls sell cookies if my child isn't interested and then I am disappointed in myself for losing interest in something I have been very passionate about for years.

February just feels like disappointment to me. February seems especially unhappy this year and not just because Grandma B died. Karl's memory seems worse, but it always seems worse so I'm not sure how to tell whether or not it actually is worse. I think maybe February isn't the month for us... which makes me wonder what month is the month for us.

I think summers are okay. No, no they aren't. Summers are when Karl is out of school and grows bored and frustrated with himself. Then he is depressed because he is bored. Then he is mad because he is bored and depressed. Then he is rude and snarly and no fun to be around. I send him to the park with the kids and I sit home savoring the quiet. I miss my solitude fiercely when everyone is home from school for months on end.

I get frustrated with taking the kids to the farmer's market on the weekends, because they want to play on the playground and babble incessantly while I am trying to pick organic produce. I can't decide which shade of red apples will make them happy this week and whether that shade of red apple that is certified organic is worth three cents more a pound than the lighter shade of red apple that is organic, but hasn't finished the certification process yet. I can't remember if my daughter likes Pink Lady or Gala better and I know my eldest doesn't care about the variety, just the depth of the color of the skin. Karl will take the kids off my hands so I can pick onions and potatoes and smoked salmon and sausage, but then the kids will whine and yell that they just want to be with me and eventually we will get home and I will have forgotten to buy any apples at all and I will wonder why we ever leave the house.

 Maybe late spring is best for us. No. Late spring is when Karl moved to Baqubah in his second tour. The funny thing (not the kind of funny that makes you laugh, but the kind of funny that makes you cry) about being married to someone who was in battle, is that I can look up dates I don't remember. March 10 is when Karl moved to Baqubah, where the worst fighting of his 27 months in combat took place. March 10 is approaching quickly, which may explain why February seems to be dissolving into anger.

Easter is when Jesse died, which is doubly unfortunate because both April 8 and whatever date Easter falls on each year are shadowed with thoughts of death. Easter may be about resurrection for many people, but not for us. I don't even know the death dates of the guys from Karl's first tour. I know that his friends' death dates start in March and extend until November, which is especially hard for us.

One day when Karl was in an especially volatile mood, I asked him if anything had happened on that date in the past.

"The problem," he said, "with trying to figure out secret anniversaries is that every day is one."

February is not the problem. Every day is the problem.