I was looking at Cassandra yesterday and wondering if the time of year in which you're born somehow influences your perspective of the world at all as an adult.
Here she is emerging out of the newborn phase at three months old into the blooming and lovely world of Summer. To her the world smells like the gorgeous scent of coconut as she nurses and smells my sunscreen. Days are filled with outside activities: sitting under a tree, splashing in a shallow pool, watching her brother laugh with glee as he climbs through a jungle gym. It's hot. It's sunny. We are all on the go, always doing, doing, doing. Life is boisterous.
And then I think back to when Henry was born in November. Once he was three months old and emerging from his own newborn phase it was the end of winter and early spring. It was cold, rainy, chilly. I was neurotically afraid of germs and those dwindling winter viruses on all surfaces. We spent a lot of time indoors seeking refuge from the weather but also bundling up and snuggling close to one another. We were less active, happier indoors instead. But when the sun did come out, we would emerge with a sense of refreshment and gratitude, soaking it all in as much as we could before the clouds came again.