Posts from — February 2010

For the love of G-d, we are still snowed in.

Tomorrow will mark a full week of being in this house with the sole break being a harrowing hour-long trip to get to the food store and back, a food store that is within walking distance of our home and which takes about 5 minutes to get to on a normal day via car if you take into account the two or three traffic lights and stop signs along the way.  When we got there, clutching a list that included yogurt and sushi (why would someone need sushi if they’re snowed in?  Please don’t ask why–only those who have been house-bound for a week can understand), we discovered that when cars can’t get to the store, trucks can’t get to the store either.  We left with pan au chocolat and sparkling fruit juice instead.

On Tuesday afternoon, the snow started again.  We spent the evening by the window, commenting on the fact that it was snowing yet again and wondering where the plows would put the snow.  It turned out to be an empty worry–the plows simply didn’t come.

On Wednesday, the snow blew sideways in gusts and we spent the day on edge, waiting for the power to go out.  I went upstairs to work on the laptop offline and somehow got sucked into signing up for StumbleUpon.  I blame the snow for my absolute lapse in reading skills.  I somehow clicked on something or didn’t click on something which meant that an email inviting people to join StumbleUpon was sent to all 4000+ contacts in my address book.  Which was really annoying and I apologize for that.  But please, it wasn’t me.  It was the snow.

Though I would love to follow you on StumbleUpon if you’re on there.

So I spent the afternoon playing with StumbleUpon, finding it a fun coincidence that I was inside the house doing idiotic things with StumbleUpon while my neighbours were outside their house doing idiotic things such as stumbling through their snow-covered yard in a blizzard.  They built an enormous tunnel through a ten-foot tall snow drift.  Josh bitterly sat by the window watching to see if the drift would collapse and crush them so he could go outside and dig them out.  Please, don’t say we’re not neighbourly.

I also hooked up Skype, something I’ve avoided doing since I first heard about Skype.  I couldn’t see any good coming from the person seeing what I look like when I’m speaking to them.  But our house had slowly morphed into the Shining, and snow-bound and slightly hysterical, the idea of human contact, even if it was through a cold computer screen, seemed like an oasis.  I spoke to my brother while crouching on the floor next to my bed, prompting him to ask what the hell has happened to us.

What the hell has happened to us?  We’re snowed in!  We’ve run out of baby carrots!  I can’t get out to get my eyebrows done!  We’re at the point where we have played so much Wii Fit Plus in the past few days that we have created imaginary pets as our new Miis.  We are spending hours at a time lying on the living room floor, staring at the fluff and making up new pretend words.  On Tuesday afternoon, I brought out the guitar and played the same two chords for over an hour, narrating everything the twins did in song.  This is what happens to people who are snowed in.

And getting more snow on Monday.

Last night, I took a deep breath and made a new schedule for today.  We will wake up and shovel snow.  I’ll go running on Wuhu Island.  We’ll bake cookies and suck the twins into helping with the candy making by pretending that we’re in our own version of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (They are totally grooving on this book so I set up the reenactment with a Kit Kat wrapped with an aluminum foil ticket that says that they won a tour of Milly Monka’s factory–obviously Willy Wonka with a vagina.  Being snowed in brings out creative bursts which only propel you further into madness.  Probably by this evening, I’ll be telling the kids that I’ll only answer to the name Milly Monka and be walking around the living room with my arms completely enrobed in chocolate).

Because there is a craziness that is setting in here, a craziness that comes with the fact that the snow is higher than the car windows.  With the fact that plows are nowhere in sight, that the Federal government has shut down and the Metro not running above-ground.  That we may not be able to go out until the weekend and that weekend trip will be to prepare for the Monday snow.  And it goes on and it goes on and it goes on.

Show and Tell is wasted on elementary schoolers. Join several dozen bloggers weekly to show off an item, tell a story, and get the attention of the class. In other words, this is Show and Tell 2.0. Everyone is welcome to join, even if you have never posted before and just found out about Show and Tell for the first time today. So yank out a photo of the worst bridesmaid’s dress you ever wore and tell us the story; show off the homemade soup you cooked last night; or tell us all about the scarf you made for your first knitting project. Details on how to participate are located at the bottom of this post.

Let’s begin.

I’m writing this before Wednesday night and scheduling it to post because…well…I’m not entirely sure we’ll dodge the bullet with this second storm and still have power.  So I’m assuming that really cool comments are coming in for the Purim basket giveaway.  But in case you haven’t yet entered, I’m showing and telling the practice batch of homemade oreos we made a few weeks ago.

Don’t those look yummy?

Or what about these, the sweet-salty butter pecan cookies:

Both of those–along with two other types of cookies and at least two types of candy–can be yours.  But that’s not all!  You also get our maudlin family letter and whatever else makes it into your box because random shit always makes it into the boxes.

The more you comment around the blogosphere (and report back that you’ve done so in a comment on that post), the greater chance you have of winning.  In other words, you give love to another blogger (or bloggers) and you may get back more butter than you can shake a stick at in return.

Since I’m using the random number generator to pick the winner, while you can leave drool on this post, please leave giveaway entries on that giveaway post so I can have them all in one place.

What are you showing today?

Click here or scroll down to the bottom of this post if this is your first time joining along (Important: link to the permalink for the post, not the main url for your blog and use your blog’s name, not your name. Links not going to a Show and Tell post will be deleted). The list is open from now until late Friday night and a new one is posted every week.

Because I know some of you have been waiting for this (I’m assuming you care because you’ve asked about it.  Though perhaps you were just being polite?), this is the post that contains the yearly Purim basket giveaway.  But first, you need to read my blatherings about snow.  Sorry about that.  Snow has become my Moby Dick.

*******

Like the aftershocks of a major earthquake, the snow keeps rolling in, with the next storm promising accumulation once again.  The first reports were five inches, which felt like a puddle in the face of the 30 inches that came over the weekend.  Something small we could jump over if we didn’t have this enormous flood of snow standing in the place of somewhere to land.

Then the reports started saying eight inches, 10 inches, and now, there are reports of 20 inches, with high winds which will likely knock back out power to the 200,000 people who just got their power returned.

We were lucky in that we escaped the power outages the first time around–truly, there, but for the grace of G-d, goes our house.  Which is a saying I somewhat hate because I don’t believe that G-d is blessing us more than my parents who were without power for a few days.  Or Amalah who braved the cold for several days before having to move into a hotel.  But we seriously felt like we dodged a major bullet with this last storm.

On Saturday night, I was crying over the fact that I had so much to get done this week and now no time to do the work.  But now facing another huge storm, another entrapment in our house, another possibility of power loss and freezing temperatures, the idea of articles and blurbs going unwritten seems like…well…a tiny puddle.

It’s a little like that old Yiddish folktale which has the rabbi suggest to the complaining man that he fill his house with all his farm animals and once life hits a crescendo, tells him to remove all the farm animals and life returns to the small problems which don’t seem that enormous now that the family has seen just how heinous it can be to have a goat bleating in their ear every ten minutes.

I’m writing this–by the way–before the storm comes.

*******

We spent yesterday preparing for the next storm, which felt a little like a poorly made sequel.  A sequel that’s a little thin, that lacks the sparkle of the first film.  The shelves at the store were understocked, but Josh still attempted to gather everything I could possibly need for Purim baking.  If we don’t lose power, the plan is to make at least half of the mishloach manot baskets.

While Josh went from store to store collecting up jam for power-outage-peanut-butter-and-jam sandwiches and a container of skim milk for cold cereal, the ChickieNob, Wolvog and I curled up on the sofa with a blanket and returned to reading Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.  We’re on the part where the family is starving and Charlie finds the dollar bill, purchases the candy bar, and finds the last golden ticket (hope I didn’t spoil that for anyone, but the title is Charlie and the Chocolate Factory so you have to assume he makes it through the gates at some point).

“Actually,” I said, connecting the book to our weekend discussion on socioeconomic imbalance in the universe, “you know how we were talking about imbalance on Saturday?  Well, the Bucket family is sort of a good example.  You know how we have enough to eat and a warm house and toys to play with?  Does Charlie?”

Hence forever cementing my identity as Commie Mommy.

But it led into an excellent line of questions ranging from why doesn’t Mr. Bucket get a different job (because jobs aren’t always easy to come by) to why doesn’t he just make more money (because they only pay toothpaste top screwers that much money) to why doesn’t someone in town HELP THE FREAKIN’ BUCKET FAMILY?

Which is what I hoped they would ask.  So I lowered my voice, as if I was about to reveal the secret to how to get a lifetime supply of chocolate, the location of the last golden ticket, and they brought their heads in close to hear me.  “There are people in our community who are just like the Bucket family.  And part of Daddy’s job is to take care of those people.  He makes sure that elderly people have a hot meal to eat for lunch and he oversees the building of homes and shelters for people in need and he helps run clothing drives.  So that’s why it’s okay for Daddy to go to work even though he misses you when he’s downtown.  Because he helps a lot of people.  And that’s why you shouldn’t yell at me when I’m baking for the shelters as part of one of his projects and tell me that I’m the worst mother in the world because I’m not leaving the chocolate chip cookies for you.  Just saying.”

It left them with a lot to think about the rest of the day.  Which is good because we’ll probably lose power and only have conversation to keep us occupied for the next few days.  And truly, it’s there, but for the grace of G-d, goes our family and I am always mindful that there is a very thin wall between those with enough and those without.

*******

As long as we have power, I am going to start baking and sending out my first round of mishloach manot baskets.  The idea behind mishloach manot is to send out treats so no one is without dessert after the Purim feast.  It’s a recognition that not everyone has money for extras, but everyone could use some sweetness in their life (and on that end, not everyone has my mad baking skillz so this is to save a person from Pepperidge Farm).

It is my favourite thing I do all year and we have a great theme planned (last year, in honour of Obama’s inauguration, the theme was “Yes, We Can(dies)!“), but you’ll need to win the basket to see it.

I can tell you that in the baskets thus far (and whoever wins can tailor this to their tastes/allergies because we’re already doing a sugar-free basket, a nut-free basket and an egg-free basket for other friends so why not pile on the substitutions?):

• Sweet-and-salty butter pecan cookies
• Hamantaschen (black cherry or raspberry)
• My infamous chocolate chip cookies
• Homemade oreos
• Maple toffee and vanilla latte toffee
• Chocolate-covered peanut butter crisp

And whatever else I dream up between now and mailing the packages.  I’m not going to be modest–people tell me that my baking and candies are fantastic and while they may be lying, they have inflated my culinary ego.  This basket is going to rock.

The baskets are for our friends and family, but we also make one every year for the lovely people of the Internets and it’s yours to win.  Here’s what you need to do to enter the giveaway (and you can enter as many times as you like this year):

• Leave a comment below (yes, a box full of candy for the low low price of one comment!)
• Tell me where you left a comment already today–and feel free to leave, write a comment somewhere, and come back.  Please put the name of that blog and a link to the post in the comment.  And say something nice about that person’s post.  And no, commenting on this post doesn’t count for where you’ve left a comment (though my blog still counts as long as you’ve commented on a different post).  The posts that you’re commenting on need to have been written in February 2010 (only entries with a link to a post written in that time frame count.  You can’t list older-than-that posts).
• Unlike other years, you can enter as many times as you like.  Which means the more you comment around the blogosphere, the more chance you have to win.  Only comments that talk about a post you read elsewhere in the blogosphere have a chance at winning (in other words, if you write below, “that looks delicious!” I’ll be appreciative, but you won’t be eligible to win.  You need to list a place where you commented today, give the url for the post, and say something about the post).
• Each comment counts as one entry, so if you’ve commented in three places, you’re allowed to leave that in three entries here.  Leaving it in separate comments is actually sort of an important fact because too many links in a comment will make it caught by the spam filter.  I can release comments caught by the spam filter, if…you know…I have Internet and electricity during the storm.
• The giveaway ends at 8 a.m. EST on Friday the 12th, therefore, you can return during the week and list new, great blog posts you found.  If you’re still confused, think of this as creating a Friday Blog Roundup-type list in the comment section, one comment at a time.

I will also love you forever if you read down the list and click over to read the other posts listed in the comment section.  And don’t just hit the first ones at the top of the comment list. Make sure you hit some of the people in the middle or bottom of the list and leave them a comment telling them that you agree with the original commentor–their writing does rock.

If someone writes something nice about a post you wrote this week, bask in the love.  Oh, and here’s a good impetus to go write something amazing on your own blog this week so people can come and comment on it over here and win the basket.

My usual blog rules apply: any spam is deleted–the point is to honour another person, not drum up business for a Viagra website–as well as anything rude.

I’ll use the random number generator and announce it hopefully on Friday provided we have power.  See, it’s that little issue of power loss that keeps returning in my mind.

*******

If we do lose power, you will know by reading here.  And then you’ll know why I’m not answering emails, putting up the LFCA, or doing anything more than shivering and cursing.

Saturday night ended in the dark, with just the sound of shovels.  Sunday was a lighter day.  The sun was shining off the enormous mounds of snow.  After breakfast, we bundled up the twins and stepped outside in our snow gear.  Our current snow gear is sort of cobbled together from various sources as opposed to the lovely snowsuits they had when they were younger and barely needed them.  I’m waiting for the season to end to pick up snowsuits for next winter.  Until then, it’s layers of stockings and sweat pants and hats that are too small.  I obviously didn’t gamble well with our money when I assumed we could get through the winter without snow pants.

The reason I love going out in the snow is that it is an excuse to pull out two seldom-used but deeply loved articles of clothing.  The first is a knit cap that comes from a tiny store in Galway, Ireland.  It started pouring and my friend and I ducked into an alleyway and into the first store we found, which turned out to be selling knit items.  An old woman sat behind a desk, knitting some shapeless article of clothing.  The bins were filled with hats and mittens and sweaters and scarves.  The woman smiled at us encouragingly and then realized as we continued to stand there that we had only come inside to get out of the rain.  She let out this warbley sigh and said, “people just come in here to get out of the rain, but they never buy.  They never buy.”

How could we be dicks and not buy something?  I’m sure this was her scam, that she probably ropes dozens of tourists a day into purchasing knit goods they don’t need.  We both ended up with knit caps and I think of her every time it snows and I wear it.

The other is my waterproof pants which are the subject of a song that Josh refused to record for your amusement.  I’m not sure how I ended up with these pants–I know I had them back in college–but early in our relationship, I was packing for a camping trip and I took them out of the closet.  “What the hell are those?” he asked.  I was sort of incredulous that he didn’t own a pair and explained how they were waterproof pants that could be used for spelunking to protect your jeans when you were crawling through the mud (as opposed to the other definition of spelunking).  “How often do you go spelunking that it would make sense to own a pair?” he questioned.

Which is not very often, but damn they’re a handy article of clothing to own.  As I packed for my trip, he made up a song about the waterproof pants that we still sing to this day whenever I wear them out in the snow.  Since, you know, I don’t really crawl into caves anymore.

The twins trekked up to the top of the snow piles, sinking down to their waist with each step.  The ChickieNob tired early, insisting that it was her Dora doll that was cold since she comes from warmer climes.

The Wolvog was able to finally climb a tree since the snow gave him a seven foot boost.

I snapped pictures and climbed into the snow and visited our felled tree and generally walked around with a sense of other-worldly-ness that can only come from having your entire street blanketed in snow.

********

We are fairly sensitive about our neighbourhood.  Tash asked why we didn’t go to a neighbour to borrow celery, but the fact is that we know very few people on our street.  We have dozens of friends in town, people under a five minute drive away, but we know almost no one in walking distance despite having lived here for years.  There are people we smile at, wave hello to if we see them outside.  There are people we could go to if there was an emergency, but no one that we are friendly enough to knock on their door and say, “hey, craving soup.  Do you have a stalk of celery I could have?”

I am jealous when people talk about how their neighbours float in and out of their house, how their kids move with a pack of other neighbourhood kids.  That’s how we grew up and we wanted it for our kids.  But that isn’t how our neighbourhood operates at all and sometimes I think that it is a socioeconomic thing common in this area (which doesn’t seem to hold true in other areas I’ve lived).  We are neither in a place of poverty where bonding becomes a necessity nor a place of affluence where activities rule all.  In the DC area, this in-between space is a quiet space.

The personality of this neighbourhood wasn’t something we could really sense before we bought the house and now we’re somewhat stuck, always eager whenever we see someone new moving in because they bring with them that possibility.  We made life choices, such as my desire to stay home with the twins, that trumped having the nice home and expendable income.  I have no regrets about that, but it is something that I always have to remember–that I got something that was worth far more to me than a spacious living room and extra bedrooms.

I also sometimes wonder if I would really like the reality of that fantasy neighbourhood.  Maybe I’m just in love with the idea because I wouldn’t love the expectation of responsibility that comes with watching another person’s child without any preparation.  It’s one thing for someone to call and ask if they can drop off their child for an impromptu playdate.  It’s another thing to have a stray kid show up at my door and feel responsible for them.  I do love it when friends drop by unexpectedly, but I love it because it’s not a daily occurrence.  So I both detest our neighbourhood and feel thankful for the cushion of solitude it gives me.

And yet I can’t understand how we can all be outside, all shoveling up the same snow, all bundled up with the same complaints churning internally about the weather, the delayed plows, and not interact.  How I can throw open my door and offer out hot chocolate and no one accepts.  How the kids can all play in their own yards, not even really noticing the other kids a few yards away.

*******

We subscribe to the philosophy Hugh Grant’s character expounded in About a Boy.  We look at the day in units of time rather than an enormous sea of minutes.  Making and eating breakfast=one hour.  Mrs. Pickens Free Play Time (please don’t ask the origin of this name)=one-and-a-half hours.  Aquadoodle Fill in Hour=28 minutes.  I’m aware that last one has “hour” in the title, but they usually quit the enormous task of filling in the entire aquadoodle before it fades after 28 minutes.

This time, they were creating the Dead Sea on the aquadoodle.  I was making chocolate chip cookies and cringed when I heard the ChickieNob tell her brother, “today, we are colouring in the entire Dead Sea.  Every last inch of it.”  I feared that we were skating a little to close to yesterday’s conversations.

But instead the dialogue went something like this:

ChickieNob: Why is it called the Dead Sea?

Me: Because nothing can live in it because it’s so salty (please don’t correct me if I’m wrong on this account; I’m not actually all that interested in the Dead Sea despite having been there to swim numerous times).  There are no fish, no plants–nothing in the water except the sand and rocks and salt deposits.

ChickieNob: What about sharks?

Me: No, there are no animals in the Dead Sea.

ChickieNob: But what if a shark swam into the Dead Sea by accident?

Me: Well, that can’t really happen.  But it wouldn’t be able to live in that water because it’s too salty.

ChickieNob: But what if it did live and then someone went into swim and it ate them.

Me: Like I said, that can’t really happen because sharks can’t live in that water.

ChickieNob: Why not?

Me: Again, like I said, it’s too salty.

ChickieNob: But what about other animals?

Me: Again, it’s too salty, there are no animals in the water.

ChickieNob: What about fish who like salt?

Me: Fish with hypertension?

The conversation would wind down only to start back up again with the same, damn questions.  And then ever so slowly, we backed away from discussions of death and loss and returned to drawing out the perimeter of the Dead Sea, asking instead when we’d travel there as we’ve promised them in the future, in the future, sometime well into the future.

*******

One of the concessions we made when going down to a single salary was that we would stop buying a lot of books and renting movies and instead take advantage of the public library.  Going to the library feels like a decadent act.  There are times when I run in, grab one thing, and run out.  But most of the time, we go and fill our bags with books and movies and music.  And it’s all free.  It doesn’t matter if I have to return it in three weeks–for those three weeks they’re all mine.

Before the snow came, we went to the library to pick up books and movies and we brought home the first season of the Muppet Show, something I would never buy even if given a gift certificate, but which I looked forward to all Friday knowing that it was in the stack.  On Saturday, we piled into our bed with a bowl of snacks and we cued up the first Muppet DVD.  “You’re going to love this.  It’s so funny,” we promised them.

Except we were the only ones laughing.

The twins stared at the screen with their mouths slightly open and then would look back at us and ask, “what was so funny just now?”  Most of the jokes were over their heads, they would have been over my head as a kid (Henny Youngman references?  A take-off on Joel Grey’s Cabaret opening number?).  And yet I remember loving the show, thinking it was so funny.  I’m not sure what I was laughing at as a child.

It was like hanging out with old friends, ones that had called first and given ample warning for their visit.  I wanted the twins to think Gonzo was cute.  I wanted them to feel comforted by Kermit.  I wanted them to be equally annoyed with Miss Piggy (I never liked her, and it wasn’t even a kosher thing).  And yet like an inverse Facebook, everyone looked so incredibly young that it made me suddenly feel very old.  Connie Stevens in a poodle skirt?  The ChickieNob wanted to know if Juliet Prowse was still dancing–how could I tell her that Juliet Prowse is, in fact, dead?  That she died almost ten years before the ChickieNob was even born.

And yet, despite my old friends making me enter a time warp where everyone was still young and healthy, that moment in our bed was pure happiness.  This is all I’ve ever wanted–to be snowed in with my family, enjoying the fact that we can’t go anywhere, with good movies and books to entertain us, and dough rising in the kitchen that will be turned into pizzas a few hours later, and everyone cuddled underneath the same blanket.

It was a day of big conversations.

This morning, we needed to explain to the twins that even trees die, pushing out their tight boundaries surrounding death a little further (up until this morning, the only ways one could die were old age, not eating, or getting hit by a car because you ran into the street instead of holding your mother’s hand).

Two of the fir trees outside our house were lying in the snow, splintered apart at the base.  While these two trees were not trees to which I had ever had a strong attachment (and to be clear, I do have a tree that would literally gut me if we lost it), one was a hang out spot for Simon Liverspot, our pet squirrel.  The tree was right next to the kitchen window and only two days ago, we ate breakfast critiquing Simon’s nut-gathering techniques while we watched him gnaw through the almonds I left him in a cup outside.  And now his home was gone.

The ChickieNob reacted with one part drama and one part true grief, calling people she knew and telling them the tale of the two trees and their early demise, ending each conversation with a solemn, “I actually don’t want to talk about it anymore.”  And then she would sigh as we dialed the next number and ask if she could speak to the person first.  She repeated the story and her desire  (and inability) to stop reliving it, turning the two felled trees into her own personal ‘Nam.

One person we called brushed off the story with a verbal wave of the hand and a promise that we could just go to a nursery and get a new tree.  But I didn’t want a new one, just as I hadn’t wanted a new goldfish as a child or a new guinea pig as a teenager or a new pregnancy as an adult.  I wanted the one that I already had, that I had memories and feelings built around.

*******

The twins came downstairs with me so I could do a workout with the Wii while Josh shoveled outside.  They sat on the floor playing with two matryoshka dolls–one a set of nesting women and the other a set of Soviet Premiers.  I ran around WuHu Island, in my own world, barely listening to their game until Stalin started moaning.

“Cut me open!  Take this baby out of me!” the Wolvog shrieked.  The ChickieNob obliged, snapping his matryoshka doll in half to reveal a smaller Lenin.  “I gave birth!  I gave birth!”

“I don’t really love this game,” I gasped at them as I ran out a tunnel back into the eternal sunshine of WuHu Island.

“It’s okay,” the ChickieNob reassured me, as if to say that I didn’t really understand it because if I did, I would see that it was just a benign creative exercise in exploring the horrors of c-sections in a safe and nurturing environment.

“No, I mean I really don’t like this game.”

The Russian peasant women and Soviet dictators were silent for a bit.  I pretty much forgot about their game, concentrating on the scenic view of the ocean before me until I heard the ChickieNob moan, “this mommy is empty.  She’s empty and she’s so sad.  She has lost her babies.  Where are her babies?  Where are my babies!   I gave birth and my baby is gone.  Give me back my babies!”

And while I know that matryoshka doll empty is not the same as a barren womb, there was something in her play cry, this mimicked scream of what she imagined a mother would sound like if her child was gone, that broke my heart into a thousand pieces, shattering it like falling tree branches into the snow.

*******

As the ChickieNob danced by in the kitchen, I scooped her up and cradled her playfully.  We have a firm you-ask-then-I’ll-tell policy in our house when it comes to sensitive subjects.  In other words, until the question comes from their lips, I believe that they’re not ready to hear the answer and therefore, I don’t say anything.  But if they do ask, they get a whole bucketful of life delivered to their doorstep in terms a five-year-old could understand.

The topic of pregnancy loss and neonatal death hasn’t been broached–at least not concretely in the past few years–though since the ChickieNob has a handful of older friends, I wondered if the topic had come up without my knowledge.  “Hey, that game downstairs.  Why were you playing that?”

“Because I felt like it and the Wolvog felt like it.  We felt like it.”

“Is that something that worries you?  Is a baby being lost something that’s on your mind?”

“I’m never worried,” she boasted.  “I’m never worried, never worried, never worried, never worried, never worried.”

I put her down and she ran around the kitchen in a crescendo of repetition until she finally plopped down on the kitchen footstool and crossed her legs in an exaggerated manner and puckered her little lips.  “Did you think that was funny?” she asked.  “I’m never worried.”

No need, my sweet, to rub it in.

*******

My big fear this storm has been that we’d lose power.  Josh was given three Yahrzeit candles to burn just in case we lost power.  Which felt like ten kinds of wrong even though I couldn’t find specific guidelines about using a Yahrzeit candle as a light source.  I mean, I’ll admit that we’ve lit white Shabbat candles during a power outage, but somehow, that feels kosher and using a memorial candle feels like it’s tempting fate.  Yet everyone we know does this because they can burn safely for 24 hours and not become a fire hazard.

But we didn’t lose power, despite losing trees, and we woke up in a warm house with computers humming.

“Holy shoot!” the ChickieNob exclaimed when we opened the front door this morning and discovered that we were literally snowed in until Josh jammed his way out–the snow covered the bottom half of our screen door.  We called my parents and discovered after trying several phones that they were one of the unlucky 200,000 people in the area without power.

Near dinner time, the snow finally let up and Josh went outside to shovel.  We called my mother again and she said they were still without power–bored but fine.  The ChickieNob told me that she didn’t understand.  She thought Daddy was going to drive over to get Grandma and Grandpa and she couldn’t understand how we were intentionally leaving them in a cold house.

I explained that this wasn’t a choice–that the roads were too dangerous to drive on even if we could somehow get our tiny vehicles over the 30 inches of unplowed snow between our two houses about 12 miles apart.

Her lip quivered as she sniffled out, “I just don’t think it’s fair.  That we have a warm house and hot pizza and Grandma and Grandpa have a cold house and cold food and no lights.”

And as her heart was breaking over noticing the tip of the iceberg of the imbalance that exists in the world, she stared at the remaining part of the tree and said, “I really don’t want to talk about that tree anymore.  It makes my heart sad to think about that tree.  And I don’t understand how a strong tree can fall over just like that.”

We kept the order of our universe: dessert following dinner, warm bath, fifteen minutes of the Muppet Show, cuddles in the rocking chair.  She went to bed thinking her deep thoughts.  Outside it was dark, even the streetlamps muted, only a handful of men trying to move the mountains of snow from the sidewalks before it froze over tonight.  When I looked out the window, it was only the sound of shovels hitting concrete, the scrap of the tool, and the shadows out there.

*******

So in one day, we covered the concept that there are other ways to die, that young trees can even die, that babies can disappear and that the world is an unfair place.  Another dispatch tomorrow provided we remain on the lucky side of the power statistics.  And we’ll hopefully get outside to play in the six foot snow piles.