I'm February.

I hate February.

I really do.

Every other month of the year has something to offer.  Lovely scenery or holidays or wonderful occasions.

The change of seasons.  Campfire to fireplace, garden to harvest.

Except for February.  

Nothing happens in February.  No anticipation, no holidays of note, no new beginnings.  February just marks the continuation of a winter that isn't likely to abate for another solid month, at least in my part of the world.

It's the month of sameness.  Where January is the tired, happy sigh after the holiday meal, February is the leftovers.

February is a hard month for me.

I realized recently that maybe February is hard because its sameness lays bare my sameness.  These days of being a mother of young ones and a caregiver to even more young ones are marked with a startling amount of sameness.  

Sometimes, I think of my days as an infinite series of the tiniest steps.  

There are no brain surgeries or gigantic acquisitions or profitable mergers.  There are no project presentations or meetings with the president or conferences to attend.  There aren't even any commutes or hour-long lunch breaks or chats at the water cooler.

No, my friend, those are big steps.  And my steps are small.

Pick up clothing, change laundry, unload dishwasher, load dishwasher, wash dishes, prepare food, clean mouths, wipe noses, change diapers, read stories, sing songs, fold laundry, buy groceries, sort, clean, sweep, bathe, pick up toys.

Repeat.  Then repeat again.  And again.

Sometimes, I feel like February.

And I find myself, a person who typically can find the happiness in the mundane tasks I perform, frustrated and ungrateful and sometimes just plain bored.  I'm tired of sickness and the inside of my house and the routinized daily grind. I'm February.

I start to second guess everything--am I doing the right thing being home?  I mean, I do have a degree!  I am a capable human being!  Shouldn't I get more education/start a business/find a high-paying job?  

I mean, ANYONE can do this, right!?  Is it really that important that I'm here to build the four hundredth lego plane or have the sixtieth sword fight or tell her for the three hundredth time not to stand on the couch?

And then, I pause. I pull out some cardboard and watch my son as he draws the planets he's so fascinated with and asks me lots of questions and smiles with pride as he puts the rings on Saturn. I watch my daughter carry her little baby around, patting her head when she 'cries' and tells me her baby needs a nap now.  I curl up anywhere that's comfortable to read stories that I've loved since I was a child to eager little ears hearing these beautiful words for the first time.

"When the days drag on monotonous; when the mundane tasks veil the miracle of your calling—this incredible privilege of raising little humans to know Him and serve Him—God is there in the midst of it all, hearing, seeing YOU."

And I read words like these that are uplifting and true and remind me that there is glory in the mundane.

I am lucky to be here, in the trenches, doing the hard, dirty, exhausting work.

Because I was given these children, this family.  They are gifts.

And I am given the gift of pouring out love.

Over and over again. 

Everyday.

Even in February.