So last Saturday, the day I went to the ER, it was 70 degrees here. Yes, that was a mere five days after a six-inch snowfall (the one that almost sent me over the edge). Tomorrow, a mere five days after the 70-degree high last Saturday, it's supposed to start snowing and continue on for "18 to 24 hours of heavy snow in this area" (according to the weather report I heard on MPR this morning).
In case you're not from here, rest assured that, while this year may be a bit more extreme than usual--we haven't had a winter this long or snowy in eight years--weather like this is par for the course for spring (and, often, autumn) in Minnesota. Any state that can routinely sport 40-below windchills in January and 97 degree temps in July is a land of extremes, and the transition seasons tend to rocket back and forth between balmy and wintry with a swiftness that can leave one highly disoriented. It's why, even though I ran in a short workout skirt and a skimpy running tee on Saturday afternoon, I hadn't yet packed away the girls' snowpants and boots. Good thing.
But, you see, what will also happen is that sometime soon, just days (hours?!) after some kind of ice storm or blizzard or bone-chilling windchill factor, it will suddenly be 85 degrees, and no one will be ready for it even though it happens every year, and I'll be scrambling around upstairs in the nursery trying to find clothes for preschool, looking for nonexistent size 4T shorts, or sleeveless shirts, or sandals, and a sundress for the baby besides. And all that will be in their little-girl drawers will be baby jeans and fleece pullovers. It happens every year.
In other news, Genevieve decided to try a little milk with her meals on occasion. She kinda likes it, the little rascal. But don't let her hear you say that.