There are those times in your life when your energy sags, your mind feels mushy, and your general view about life is … meh. Usually for me, that means it’s February. In our younger days my friends and I used to call it “The Febs.” Even the word itself is low-energy. It’s not vibrant like “March,” also a verb, and one easily finished off with an exclamation point. It’s not chirpy and cute like “April.” Not musical-sounding like “June,” which brings to mind a major chord. Or bright and sunny like “May,” conjuring images of spring flowers. Not to mention, all are female names.

February isn’t assertive like January is. January seems to announce itself — maybe it’s the hard “J” sound. It also has a phonetic attractiveness. Pronouncing it invites you to really enunciate, but in a fun way, like you’re exercising your mouth: “JAN-YOU-AIRY.” 

Unlike February, which starts with an “F” — hardly the superior letter. In fact, it rates an “F,” if you’re grading the letter grades. F is flabby … “phhh” … It just peters out. February also contains the awkward “br” sound — does anyone really say Feb-RU-ary? No! Everyone glides over it hurriedly — FeBUary. Alright, maybe there is the occasional “R” in there, but really, no one cares. In fact, February tries to quickly get itself over with by being the shortest month. It’s like it’s saying, OK, OK, we know… we’re trying to get out of here and get on to March, which at least has spring break and brings the possibility of early warm weather with it.

March is anticipatory — spring is coming! Indeed, the first day of spring is in March. February is simply the last slog of winter. When will it end? Seriously, it’s STILL February?? Thank god it’s the shortest month!

February also contains one of the most dubious holidays, Valentine’s Day. Is there anyone who actually likes Valentine’s Day? Besides snotty-nosed grade-schoolers who probably spread those winter colds with the store-bought Valentines cards they add a sticker and their name to and distribute to every child in the class because God forbid anyone gets left out?

So the day that is supposed to symbolize romantic love — a love that has you declaring to your one and only, “I heart-emoji you forever, here’s a card and chocolate, and let’s go out to a special dinner alongside dozens of other couples on the exact same night to celebrate our love” — is actually for kindergarteners, restaurants and CVS.

I suppose February does have a couple of redeeming qualities in President’s Day and Black History Month. The former brings a day off from school, which is nice, and it celebrates the birth of  Washington and Lincoln, which is also nice. And the latter invites us to focus on important stories and figures in black history, some well-known, some not. In fact, these two came together for our family this year in a spontaneous way. While a number of friends took advantage of the holiday to go away for the weekend, I decided that even though we would be in town, we could at least take a little field trip. I’d been wanting to see the National Gallery’s exhibit featuring the work of African American photographer Gordon Parks, and it was closing that weekend. Nothing like a deadline to create action.

So I announced to my husband and three teenagers (via a group text, naturally) that we would all be blocking out a few hours on Sunday afternoon to visit the National Gallery and go to dinner afterwards. No arguments, no laments. No choice.

And, even though it felt like dragging elephants, we arrived at the gallery before it closed. I was in a sweat by the time we had weaved our way through the labyrinth of rooms to reach the beginning of the exhibit. I rounded the corner at one point to find the kids, including their friend who came along, gathered in the middle of the room, ignoring the photos and chattering away. I shushed loudly and waved my hand to scatter them. Turning, I continued to methodically make my way through the exhibit, carefully reading every word accompanying every photo. Eventually, my phone flashed with a text from one of my daughters: “Can we leave soon? We’re all pretty hungry.” Just in case I was thinking of lingering, my husband chimed in, “Me too.”

I sighed and started walking back toward the entrance. Hopefully they had absorbed something. We headed to dinner at a nearby pizza restaurant, and as I settled into the booth, the kids engrossed in each other and Instagram, I looked at my husband. Do you think they enjoyed it?

“It was a home run,” he answered.

And there you have it. Maybe they didn’t read every word, or even glance at every photo, but I’d brought them all to the table, dammit. At dinner we had some fun, funny and insightful conversations. Turns out after scooting through the photo exhibit, the kids had gone upstairs to view the American landscapes. Not my idea, but maybe better that it was theirs. And I consider that little nugget a victory — especially against the one-two punch of teens and their ubiquitous screens.

Forced Family time in February. The three F’s. Turns out three F’s are much better than one.

Looking for the Gordon Parks exhibit…