All at once, the snow is gone. And the trees have tiny pointed buds on them in deep colors. And the temperature is warm enough to make a winter jacket a burden. The birds are singing in the morning, the sweetest song, seemingly just for us. It all feels like a surprise, like my first spring ever.

The babies stare out the windows for hours. What used to be all white all the time is all at once colors and light and the flicker of birds and chipmunks and squirrels. They toddle over to their fleece snowsuits and pull. They want to go outside. And when I buckle them into their stroller, their eyes are wide and excited and the corners of their mouth are turned up in a smile.

All at once the air is so fresh. Our dog has taken to running away in the mornings, breaking through the invisible fence, because suddenly the smells are so strong and tempting and new that he just doesn’t care about getting electrocuted. It’s terribly inconvenient and yet completely understandable. Spring has sprung.

All at once the streams have thawed and bubble happily next to the road, so that I turn the stroller for the babies to watch. I wish I could record the sound of the water gently gurgling over the stones since for some reason it makes me so happy and peaceful.

It happened so fast – the end of winter and the start of spring – that it feels surprising, shocking even. Of course we knew spring would come, in our minds, on our calendars. But being in it, inside spring when the earth is gently waking up, is something else.

I know part of my awe this year is seeing it through my children’s eyes. The babies didn’t even remember the sun. The warmth of it, or the feel of the breeze across their skin. They lean forward in the stroller, eyes wide, taking it all in. Taking in the earth and the sky and the trees and the brook and the birds and the sun. They don’t make a peep, and they sit very still. Like it could all disappear again on them and they don’t want to miss it.

The big kids come home and throw down their bags and hop on their bike, or take a stick and push it into the soft earth or the streams that run around our house. Every other driveway on our street has a kid shooting baskets, the staccato rhythm of the ball bouncing blends into our afternoons. The sound of giggling laughter as kids jump on trampolines is so sweet I think it might be the path to world peace.

My children have dug through their summer clothes and pulled out their shorts and flip flops. They put Alexa in the basket on their bike so they have music when they stay inside the wifi zone. So they go back and forth in front of our house, singing while they ride, the wind blowing their hair back, which is basically the same thing as flying.

The sweetness of this moment is knowing what we’ve just come from: frozen tundra. Air so cold it hurts. Chapped lips and hands and cheeks. And knowing what we are still facing: scorching hot days, where babies will sweat taking our walk, and I will beg for air conditioning and cold water when we’re done. The sun will beat down and the grass will wither and scorch, and bugs will annoy us more than the heat. Going outside will become the same quick dash to the car that winter was, and we’ll try to get away from the elements instead of sinking into them.

But not now. All at once, going outside is like a siren song, like getting kissed by Mother Nature. So we’ll obey, and go outside, and linger in the soft sounds and the sweet smells of spring.