Can I be brutally honest?
I don’t know what to write,
I feel uninspired and unmotivated and that makes it difficult to put words to the page.
Still, I love this space and cherish your company and never want to neglect it. I worked HARD in October to nurture it more and, while I fell far short of writing every day, I did manage to write a fair bit.
That didn’t stop me from falling flat in November, however. Sigh…
Anyway, back to the topic at hand. A topic I chose completely randomly because it jumped into my mind…
In November of 2005, we got a phone call telling us that Thanksgiving would be at my sister-in-law’s. We were expected there by 1 PM and we were expected to bring a veggie platter and a cheese platter.
That’s how things happened back then. Living in a state with a mother-in-law and two sisters-in-law meant that, as the “married in woman”, I really got no say in how or where things were celebrated. This meant that, when they called and said, “You’re hosting Easter,” I just complied. It also meant that I never got a Mother’s Day at my own house. Looking back, I’m not sure if I wish I’d stood my ground more or if I’m glad I didn’t make waves over such things. Either way, this was Thanksgiving of 2005 and I was in charge of platters.
We drove to my sister-in-law’s house and spent the day there. I ate a LOT of rolls with cheese as I don’t really like traditional Thanksgiving fare, but I was in the second trimester of my second pregnancy. So I was hungry.
It was a long day. Holidays there typically were. It was well into the evening before we left on the journey home, a drive that took just under two hours.
It was bitterly cold.
I remember that more than anything. The thermometer on my Envoy read 0 degrees, exactly. Icy little snow flurries blew through the air– not enough to make the roads treacherous, but enough to obscure visibility for my husband, driving through the dark.
Twenty minutes from home, our 10-month-old stirred and fussed. He was hungry. The fussing turned to wailing. My already tense husband clenched the wheel and clenched his jaw. I craned my arm around sideways, shaking a Tic-Tac container in an attempt to distract my distraught baby boy.
I was so glad to get home.
We stepped in our cozy old farm house and I immediately realized something was wrong.
I could see my breath.
The thermostat temp said 46 degrees, though it had been set at 62.
Our furnace was broken.
There I was– pregnant, holding a baby, on the coldest Thanksgiving night I had ever experienced, out in the middle of Nowheresville, Indiana.
I changed A. and dressed him in two fleece sleepers. I prepared a bottle. I sat with him on the couch and my husband piled three blankets over both of us.
The thermostat read 42 degrees.
My husband called around to try to find someone to come out to service our furnace. (Service calls at 10 PM on Thanksgiving night are not cheap, in case you were wondering.)
But, by morning, our furnace was repaired and our home was toasty warm.
I’ve had people ask me how I felt that night– if I was scared. Overwhelmed. Nervous. If I cried. Called home. Got upset.
The truth is…
I was at peace.
I remember sitting on that couch, smiling softly up at my husband with our warm, sleepy-eyed baby on my lap, his baby sister kicking me from within.
It was cold, yes.
But I was loved.
I never doubted that.
I knew that we’d be fine and I knew that I’d married a man who would do everything in his power to ensure our safety and comfort. I knew that this was an inconvenience, but not a tragedy.
And I knew I had a whole bunch to be thankful for.