It’s early for a weekend morning. The kind of early that still feels like winter, even though the calendar insists otherwise. I’m sitting on the lakefront, wrapped in a blanket over my parka, hood cinched tight, gloves clutching a thermos of hot coffee like it holds the last warmth on Earth. My son’s soccer game is in full swing, but my body hasn't caught up. The wind off the lake is unkind. The sky is a flat slate gray—what passes for spring here until at least May. The ground is soggy from days of rain, and shallow pools of water have formed in the sticky, slimy mud, settling into ruts where cleats and boots have churned through what little grass remains. Parents like me are crouched in camp chairs along the sidelines, huddled beneath hats and hoods, occasionally peeking out to cheer for their people or exchange sympathetic chatter with fellow freezing team families. It’s communal suffering, Midwestern-style.

It’s April, and the spring soccer schedule has begun. After a few blissful months in the relative comfort of the indoor league, we’re back outside supporting our Midwestern children as they run around in shorts (albeit also with long socks and long-sleeved shirts layered under their jerseys) in 30-degree weather. We like to think we are raising hearty, gritty kids, but the truth is we all hope for better weather. And we are rarely rewarded for our optimism this month.

At halftime, I reach for my phone. No texts, no emergencies. I send my husband a quick update—tied at 2—and then peek at the weather forecast, which is more of the same: cold and gray, with a chance of worse. I turn to the guilty pleasure of Instagram and the algorithm, always eager to provide a distraction. There they are again, like clockwork: the dresses. One in a sweet, pale lemon curd yellow. The other in apple green, so bright it feels almost defiant. Sleeveless, airy, made for sun-dappled sidewalks and skin that’s seen more daylight than a wrist peeking out from a fleece-lined cuff. I don’t need them—not yet. But I can’t stop looking.

And what’s a sundress without shoes? Cute, matchy-matchy Adidas with green stripes—practical and fun. Or strappy espadrilles—less practical, but they scream summer patio brunches or vacation dinners al fresco under rattan porch fans, tall glasses sweating fruit-garnished cocktails through wire table slats. Sunglasses perched on my head—do I need new sunnies, too? Another tab reveals the latest styles: oversized Jackie O lenses in pastel frames or classic tortoiseshell with a hint of something retro and cool.

The whistle blows, sharp and sudden, yanking me out of my citrus-colored daydream and back to the sidelines. I tuck my phone into my coat pocket and pull my blanket tighter around my legs. The kids are back on the field, cheeks flushed, legs bare, running hard and fearless despite the cold. I admire them, truly. But I wiggle my toes inside wool socks and waterproof boots and sip my coffee, bracing against a gust of wind off the lake. I glance at the relentlessly flat sky and push the dreams of sleeveless attire out of my mind—for now.

When the final whistle blows, the teams are still tied (good job, you did your best!), and we scurry to the vehicle to thaw out—at least briefly—before heading home. Walking in from the backyard, a fat robin hops through the garden, pausing to regard me with critical brown eyes. And there, by the house, a pop of color: the first daffodil of the season has fought its way up and stands bravely alone in a cluster of green foliage, drops of icy rain still clinging to its leaves and petals like tiny declarations of survival.

A sign of the mythical season of spring in Chicago—like street sweepers, Cubs night parking restrictions, and the first pale purple lilac buds appearing on lanky, bare branches. The grass in the yard is still patchy, and the fragrant, if invasive, mint has yet to take over my flower beds—but the signs are beginning to appear. Before I know it, mornings will lose their crisp edge, and I’ll begin to leave our back door open to just the screen, allowing warm afternoon air to drift into the kitchen as I make dinner. We’ll fire up the grill and use the first tender chives from the herb garden to top chicken skewers, biding our time until the tomatoes are ready in summer.

I contemplate a fresh cup of coffee and hang my coat to dry, knowing I’ll need it again tomorrow. But I can feel something shifting, and it won't be long until the sun returns. For now, the sundresses remain in my cart, not my closet. But the signs are here—subtle and stubborn, just like my city. A daffodil. A robin. A whisper of lilac on the breeze. Spring will arrive when it’s ready.

And when it does, I’ll be ready, too.