If we really lived in a cabin, we wouldn't be afflicted with it; we would just walk outside. It's that cooped-up feeling you get living in the city on a dreary 50-degree January day with no snow in three weeks. Last weekend was dismal. You can't ski when there's no good snow, and you can't play soccer on the soggy icy mud fields. Indoor rock climbing? Too expensive. Movie? Nothing redeeming enough.
I was in danger of pacing circles around the house moving clutter from one space to another all day long. I was starting to loath the day and myself. The children were fighting and provoking one another. We were too fidgety to sit down and play board games. Panic was growing in me. I had to do something. So I became what I am good at: the annoying drill sergeant. Through the moans and excuses, I forced everyone to get up and put their boots on, then cajoled them to get into the car, husband, too. We drove to the Middlesex Fells, the city forest. I didn't care how muddy or dead it would look. This is what we found: Frozen swamps to slide on, giant boulders to climb, and ice dams to smash. Fresh air. Trees. I hoped they would get their socks nice and wet. They did, and we all felt better.