54 degrees in March after over 30 inches of snow in February? I was most definitely outside yesterday. I explored two different parks in Columbus with my camera in hand. Of course, I always have my camera in my hand, it being mostly attached to my face.

One of the parks was the Columbus Park of Roses. I didn’t know it existed. Despite the fact that no roses were in bloom (it is only March, after all) it was still fantastically beautiful. I caught some beautiful photos of the rose bushes that will soon spring forth with beauty, color and new life.

Throughout the park there are beautiful pathways. These pathways have 12×12 (and 8×8) engraved stones that people have purchased in honor or memory of someone in their lives. I enjoyed reading some of them as I walked and soaked up some much needed sunlight. Some included eulogies, like my favorite, “She never slowed down.” Others were wedding dates and names, most likely having been married during blooming season at the park.

And then I tripped over this one.

I literally read it as my foot passed over it and I had to stumble backward and reread it. I took a few pictures. I stood there for a few moments and wondered what individual or group of individuals thought to dedicate a stone in a park of roses to these firefighters. Was it someone who lost a loved one? Was it another firefighter who, living in Ohio, felt helpless in 2001? Was it a group of firefighters? Was it a family who felt a tug to honor their heroes? I don’t know the answer. Someone spent $200 to forever remember those firefighters.

I wish I could thank that person myself.

Fire life seems to touch so much of my own life. As we walked down the Short North last night after supper, a group of Columbus fire trucks raced to a scene that I assume was a false alarm. The aerial truck responded and a bit of fear pulsed through my veins. I didn’t get a picture because my fingers were frozen at this point, the sun having dipped down behind the buildings. But, like the stone in the park had said earlier that day, I gazed upon the scene with a hopeful heart that everything would be okay and said a prayer and a brief thank you. They may not be my firefighters from my department but they’re still part of our fire family, wherever I happen to be.

Even in a rose garden.

Hope springs eternal. Or, rather, Spring makes me hopeful.

I’m tired of being stuck inside. I’m tired of the snow. I’m tired, mainly. I need fresh air that doesn’t burn my lungs. I need a little more green, it being my favorite color and all. I need more color than various shades of grey. I need Spring.

I’ve been feeling kind of down in the dumps, overwhelmed with our four walls and constant company. It’s not that I’d just turn my kids loose outdoors and not watch them; it’s that we need more space for our voices, our personalities. We need to stretch and run and spend that energy. It’s been a hard winter, too, having lost two family members. I need that hopeful feeling that the new growth of Spring brings.

And it’s so close I can almost taste it.

Buds. They’re coming. I can almost imagine the blooms that they will soon bring. I can almost imagine our apple tree in full bloom, buds pushing up through the grass. I can almost imagine grass. Snow is melting, here and there, and I can see the dull, dark browns and green from a winter of halted growth. Will it green up soon? Will it soon outnumber the patches, piles and inches of endless white?

I have this lament every year, like last year when I was worried about snow falling on my day lily sprouts. They came up on March 17th. That’s only thirteen days from now. Surely that means that hope is just around the corner, just waiting to be discovered. Right? Surely that means that the sun will shine more than just today. That soon the snow will melt. That maybe, just maybe, Spring really is coming this year, not leaving us in this frozen tundra of gloom and doom forever. Right?

This has been one of the worst winters I can remember; not just snow wise but emotionally as well. Maybe not the worst but it ranks up there quite high. I’m ready to feel new again myself. To shed my winter coat and stand with my face to the sun and let the bright rays of hope remind me of who I am and what it is that I am doing here.

I’m ready. Is Spring?

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[For more hopeful photos, visit today's You Capture Challenge at I Should Be Folding Laundry.]

It’s been an awful winter. No doubt. With more snow in the forecast, I’m kind of ready to channel our angry snowman, hold my snow shovel to the sky and shout, “AS GOD AS MY WITNESS, I’LL NEVER SHOVEL SNOW AGAIN!” Except then we’ll have a blizzard so I think I’ll refrain from such dramatics. I will, however, share with you the silver lining of this long, cold, snowy, icy and otherwise awful winter.

LittleBrother is potty trained.

In the winter of 2007, BigBrother and I had to skip weekly coffee with my friends for weeks as he struggled to make heads or tails of his bodily functions. This time around we didn’t have to skip anything. Why? We didn’t get to go anywhere for three weeks anyway due to the weather. Therefore, LittleBrother got three weeks of running around the house in a shirt, underwear, socks and sometimes slippers. Sometimes he threw a pair of Babylegs into the ensemble and cute pictures happened.

Some people do hole up in their homes with their potty interested toddler. They turn down invitations. They avoid the store. They run out of food, starve and everyone goes insane. You know, kind of like what happens when twelve inches of snow get another six inches of snow and then get topped with three more and then some freezing rain as a cherry on top of the sloppy sundae of winter. We had no choice. We were stuck at home. Why not parade around in underwear, sit in the hallway outside the bathroom and put stickers on a piece of construction paper? What else was there to do?

We were brave. Or silly. Probably a little of both. He wore underwear to the calling hours and the funeral last week. Unlike BigBrother, he has no fear of public restrooms. In fact, he adores them. We visit them. Repeatedly. On every trip outside of the house. It’s been interesting but productive. Literally.

He still occasionally has a small accident. The other day, we were taking out the trash during naptime. We came back into the house to hear LittleBrother at his door, his little voice coming out from under, “Sorry, Daddy.” It’s okay, Bubba. Accidents happen. We do some reminding, of course, but he also asks and tells us when he needs to use the bathroom. It’s quite shocking. Writing about it is kind of brave. He’ll probably decide tomorrow that baby diapers are all the rage and I’ll cry.

Maybe it was the book. Maybe it was all that sign language we did with him before he became (wicked) verbal. Maybe it was the awesome underwear he got for Christmas. Maybe it was following anyone who went into the bathroom so that privacy was a thing of the past. Maybe he was so tired of being at home that he created a new challenge for himself (and for us). Maybe he was just ready. I don’t know. All I know is that, except for nights, we’re done with diapers. (Night time readiness is a physiological response, not a matter of training.)

So, despite the cold, long, annoying winter, I’m thrilled that LittleBrother is potty trained. He’s even wearing pants over his underwear during the day now.  I maintain that pants are overrated but apparently it’s appropriate to wear them outside the house. Maybe we’ll stay in just a few days more. (Out of necessity. More snow on the way. Woo?)

(By the way, on the post I linked to March of 2007 and in the picture of LittleBrother in February 2009, the boys are wearing the same shirt. Apparently it’s a potty training favorite because it’s short in length which means no pee on it. Win.)