Night before last and yesterday was a chunk of time that I'd just as soon not relive.
After a foot of heavy, tree-snapping, power-line downing snow (thanks, NOAA, for flubbing so catastrophically) and a crisp night spent with no heat or electricity and a child bundled up like Randy from A Christmas Story, we dug out of our driveway and abandoned our house for the day, not knowing when we would return, because..
When you're a kid, it's an adventure. When you're a young adult, it's annoying. When you're an adult with a baby in the winter, it's unlivable.
Many hours later, we picked Brandon up from work and returned to what we hoped would be the house on the street that would make environmentalists cringe (generally, when the power comes back on, I'm temporarily blinded because in my mole-like bumblings, I turn on every single light by habit).
When we slipped around the icy corner onto our street, I choked back a sob (dramatic, much?) as I saw the gleaming brick colonial beacon welcoming us home.
Right in the driveway, Brandon and I both whipped out our phones and began calling and texting the laundry list of friends who had contacted us throughout the day
to make sure we were ok,
to offer their homes for the night and weekend,
to let me and Harper spend the whole day with them & not flinch when H delivered an an award-winning temper tantrum in the car,
to remind me that Harper's white noise machine can be operated on battery power.