February happened. To avoid writing anything of consequence, here’s a poem about last month, titled Leap Year, by Annette Wynne:

Little month of February,

You are small, but worthy—very!

Will you grow up like the others,

Like your sister months and brothers?

Every four years with a bound

With a leap up from the ground,

Trying to grow tall as they—

All you stretch is one small day!

Even then you’re not so tall

But just the shortest month of all.

And isn’t that just like motherhood? You try and you try and you work and pray and cook and love and clean and pray and laugh and train and cry and pray, but no matter what your mothering seems mediocre despite all that and then the kids grow up and suddenly you’re the shortest one in the house and those taller kids do amazing things and frustrating things and then the back to back birthdays are over, even though they happened in March and not February, and now you can sit down for a little bit again since you’re no longer wrapping a billion presents or frosting the seventh tier of cake and yet you’re wishing you had an extra day every month* because you haven’t soaked it all in enough and all I want to know is what’s with the homemade rocket paraphernalia in my driveway and why is it always James?”

* There’s no way. YOU WERE PANICKING EVERY DAY, AND ASKING ME TO DO EVERYTHING! YOU MOST CERTAINLY DID NOT WANT MORE OF THAT. ~Anna