#29: Checkmate

Last night’s flying lesson was canceled again thanks to a quiet and steady Columbus rainfall that quickly turned to snow. I’ve rescheduled for next Thursday and refuse to look at weather.com to see what the sky has in store for me that day. Instead, I’ll hope for low cloud cover. Starry skies because we’re still planning a nighttime run.

This means I still don’t have a story to tell for 36×37 assignment #28. Maybe I’ll just skip ahead to the assignment I actually did pull off this week.

I learned to play a little game called Chess.

~*~

In this case, “play” has a loose definition. Really, I just expect to meander around the board for a bit until all my pieces fall prey to the unmerciful.

It’s Sunday, and GB is setting up the board. Until now, the only things I’ve known about Chess have come from the lyrics of that excellent Yes classic, I’ve Seen All Good People (Your Move):

Take a straight and stronger course to the corner of your life
Make the white queen run so fast she hasn’t got time to make you a wii-ii-ii-ii-iiife
‘Cause it’s time it’s time in time with your time and it’s news is captured
For the queen to use
Move me on to any black square, use me anytime you want
Just remember that the goal is for us all to capture all we want, (move me on) yeah, (to any black square)
Don’t surround yourself with yourself, move on back two squares
Send an instant karma to me, initial it with loving care….

Between those words and my peculiar, lifelong obsession with Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking Glass, I mistakenly assume I know enough, anyway, to at least hold my own.

I remind resident Chess expert GB to keep his unfair advantage in check. As a child, he was invited into his school’s gifted and talented program, where he played untold hours of the game because nobody knew what else to do with him.

Now we sit across from each other, our shoulders squared, elbows on the table. He lines his white pieces in two rows and tells me to follow suit.

“First, place your king and queen. Bishops go on either side, then your knights, then your rooks. All your pawns line up in front, like this.”

I align my black pieces to mirror his. Already, I like this game.

(via www3.telus.net)

“Ok, here are the rules…” he says.

• Protect your king at all cost. If the king is captured, the game is over. He can move one vacant square in any direction. [An aside: He can also make a special move known as castling no more than once each game. I don’t know what castling is yet, but trust me, I’m going to find out when I’ve finished writing this post. Methinks GB has been holding out on me.]
• Your queen is the most powerful piece on the board. [As well she should be.] She can move as many vacant spaces as she wants, and in any direction.
• Your bishops are similar to the queen in that they can move as many vacant spaces as they want, but only on the diagonal.
• Your knights can move only in an “L” shape:  two squares, then one perpendicular square. They’re the only pieces that can jump over others without being blocked.
• Your rooks can move as many unoccupied vertical or horizontal spaces as they want.
• You have eight pawns. They’re the only pieces that can never retreat. They can move forward up to two vacant squares on their first move, and only one vacant square on all subsequent moves. They can capture only those enemy pieces that sit in either of the two squares diagonally in front of them.

Wow—really? I had no idea. This is serious business. Or at the very least, it certainly ain’t Checkers, is it.

GB gazes at me steadily. He looks like he’s daring me, so we begin to play.

Instantly I feel like the atmosphere is all wrong—like we should be listening to Vivaldi and swirling brandy in our cups while we sit in smoking jackets, filling our pipes and talking about metaphysics. Instead, the kitchen is chaos. O wriggles onto my lap and H launches into some diatribe about Batman and Robin.

We play for a while but take a break to put the kids through their bath time routine. When we resume the game, it takes just twenty-five  minutes to finish it. I’ve captured five of the enemy but GB has lifted my king.

“Bastard!” I say.

He smirks. “This is how you learn.”

~*~

I love Chess. I find myself dreaming up moves. In my spare time, I teach H about the game because he’s interested in learning it. He’s a quick study, too. It’s almost eerie how fast a six-year-old can pick up complicated strategy. We sit, again square-shouldered, with looks of rapt concentration. This time, there is Vivaldi.

“My rook could capture your pawn,” he says. “But then your knight would take my rook. And then my queen wouldn’t have protection. I can’t let you take my best piece.”

I feel like I’m equally matched. I figured I’d make quick work of a six-year-old, but I guess a beginner is a beginner, no matter how old you are.

Still, I’m impressed by the way his mind works. I don’t know why I’m surprised. This boy is exactly like his father: A steady gaze and unflagging concentration, laced with a nimble ability to strategize.

I wonder…maybe I should ask him about castling.

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When Mama Ain’t Happy, Ain’t Nooobody Happy

I hate the phrase, but I’m going to say it: I didn’t win any parenting awards today.

I tried. But as far as keeping a cool head and remembering I’m the adult and channeling Mr. Rogers and all of that other great advice is concerned, I couldn’t pull it off today. I’m a mom and also I’m human and sometimes, cooling off by counting to 10 will get you nothing but extra practice counting.

It goes like this: Your five-year-old turns six. He’s a lovely child. A sweet child. But suddenly, he’s infused with a sense of empowerment (great!) and a dagger-toothed alter-ego (not great!) who believes he now holds the keys to the kingdom. He turns off his ears when you speak, refuses what you ask, then launches into the most spectacular tantrum.

It’s normal six-year-old stuff, probably. Still, you’re dumbfounded. You would never, ever spank your kids, so by the looks of it, there are only three things you can do to deescalate the situation: 1) Stare indignantly, 2) Say, “That’s it! Enough!” and 3) March the screaming thing that looks like your child upstairs and leave it standing in the center of its Pottery Barn choo choo train rug before you breathlessly close the door.

Once you catch your breath, you sit down and rethink your entire parenting philosophy. Then you rethink the rethinking until you find yourself amid a sea of construction paper and markers, drawing a “Positive Reinforcement Chart” your kid can fill with stickers each time he does something you ask him to do. You say he can exchange the stickers for great prizes like “story time!” and “a weekday play date!” and “a tasty snack!” Bonus time: As long as he’s earning the goods, you can’t take them away.

Fun stuff, the Positive Reinforcement Chart.

Then, you set the ground rules.

16 Ways to Have a Great Day!

1. Do what you’re asked to do the first time you’re asked to do it. (1 sticker)
2. Sit on your bottom during meal times. (1 sticker)
3. …by “sit on your bottom,” that means you should not stand on your chair, crawl across the table, put your feet in your brother’s face, or move anything but your fork to your mouth. (1 sticker)
4. Stay at the table at meal times. (1 sticker)
5. …in other words, do not throw yourself across the room or hurl yourself onto the couch or throw chicken strips or spit water at your brother. Pretend you’re a tree, or better yet, a statue of a little boy who actually eats like a human sometimes. (1 sticker)
6. Eat your vegetables. (1 sticker)
7. I said eat them. (1 sticker).
8. Thank you. Now put your dirty dishes in the sink, please. (1 sticker)
9. …without spilling your cereal or dropping crumbs on the floor or wiping your jelly mustache on your sleeve. (1 sticker)
10. Clean up your toys. (1 sticker)
11. …yes, all 957 thousand of them. Please. (Pretty please?) (1 sticker)
12. Put on your shoes and coat when it’s time to leave the house. (1 sticker)
13. When asked to put on your shoes and coat, do not roll on the floor and make groaning noises. (1 sticker)
14. Help your brother, and be kind to him. (2 stickers)
15. Do not call him “baby” or tell him he’s “a pretty, pretty girl.” (1 sticker)
16. Give your mama a hug. Because we both need it. And because she loves you. (12 stickers)

You use clear tape to attach the rules to the TV cabinet. Then you stand at the bottom of the steps. “Have you cooled down yet?” you call. “If you have, you can come down now.”

Your six-year-old slinks down the steps looking squirmy and skittish. He stands at your feet, pauses then wraps his arms around your waist. “I’m sorry, Mama.” he says. You say you’re sorry too as you kiss the top of his head.

You vow you will be better at this starting now.

And by “you,” I mean me.

Now, about that parenting award…from what I hear, they give out that thing every day. It’s a long shot, but maybe I’ll win it if I keep trying. After all, I’m working on a sticker chart for me now. It’s blue, and my stickers are clovers.

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Flight: Delayed

(via quietpaths.com)

Saturday

O wakes with a croupy cough after a wheezy, Albuterol-filled night. We’ve been through enough asthma attacks like this to know there’s an ear infection lurking. And, as it usually goes in families when small kids are under the weather, GB and I feel rather sub-par ourselves.

At 8:00 AM, I decide O needs to see a doctor. I call Richard (my instructor at The New Flyer’s Association) to reschedule my 2:00 PM flying lesson.

“What about tomorrow?” I ask. “Do you have space available?”

“We do at noon” Richard says. “I’ll call if it looks like the weather won’t hold.”

I say, “Perfect!” even though it’s not. I hear the click on the other end and try to shake off my disappointment.

By 2:00, the sky is a gorgeous eggshell blue, and luckily, O seems like he’s on the mend. We build LEGO guys, and I think, “I could be flying.” We watch cartoons, and I think “I could be flying.” I look at Sunday’s forecast and see snow projected for the afternoon. “I could be flying,” I think as I draw smiley-face suns in blue crayon.

Sunday

The sky is gray but dry. I make pancakes, tidy the house, try to overlook my nervousness, and watch the crawling clock. When the phone is still quiet at 11:00, I relax.

My cell phone rings at 11:15. I recognize the number.

“I think we should cancel today,” Richard says. “The radar shows a nasty storm creeping up 71-N. I could take you up, but I really don’t think you’d have fun.”

Curses.

“No, you’re right…” I say. “I’ve been checking the weather all morning.”

“Let’s just reschedule,” he says as he scrolls through his online booking system. “Does it have to be on the weekends?”

“Well, I work during the day. How late do you fly?”

“We take flights up through 6:30. Think you’d like to see Columbus by plane on Thursday night?”

Did someone say “night?” Why yes—I think I would.

~*~

For the rest of the day, I’m a walking disaster. At the store, when I stand on tip-toes to reach the frozen BBQ pizzas, I knock a dozen over my head and then onto the floor. In the soda aisle, I drop a 24-pack of Diet 7Up on my toes. At lunch, I spill salad on my newly-mopped kitchen floor then smack my head against the pantry door just trying to close it.

If I believed in signs, which I don’t, I’d say the universe is telling me my timing would have been off while learning to fly this weekend. Perhaps.

I’d rather believe I’m meant to see my city on a Thursday, a few thousand miles up, completely illuminated.

What a first that will be. I’m already marking the hours. I’ll have the details and videos on Friday, with lots of other posts—including 36×37 assignment #29—in between.

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#28 is Coming: Maura Flies a Plane

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I remember driving past the airport with my father once when I was small. We watched the airplanes take off from our fast-moving lane on the highway.

“What makes them go up?” I asked. “How can something that heavy get off the ground?” I figured he’d have an answer; when my dad was a soldier, he spent some time packing parachutes for the Air Force.

He rolled down my window. “Stick out your arm,” he said.

I did.

“Now, bend your elbow and hold your hand straight like a board.”

I did that, too.

“Pretend your hand is an airplane. Tip the nose up a little.”

Just that slight angle change forced my hand upward like a rocket. And that’s when I fell in love with flight.

~*~

From there, I tagged along whenever my dad and brother attended the Dayton Air Show. I loved the aerial displays: The Blue Angels and their showboating stunts; the sexy F-16s and their blazing speed; the bi-planes and their World War II reenactments; the cargo planes trudging slowly across the horizon. I’d use my hands to shield the sun. Mostly I’d keep my composure and just watch with my mouth open.

On the inside, though, I was like young Christian Bale in Empire of the Sun, totally losing his mind over the P-51s air-raiding his concentration camp.

(I think I was 13 the first time I saw this scene. To this day, it’s still one of my favorites of all time, ever.)

~*~

Earlier this year, I took a ride in a Huey helicopter. It was #7 on my list of 36×37 assignments. Before last week’s trapeze lesson, the Huey was my favorite 36×37 adventure. But as much as I loved it, I didn’t really want to be the passenger.

I wanted to be the pilot.

So why not? Why not be the pilot? If the opportunity arises—which it did thanks to Groupon—why not grab the controls and take physics for a test drive? At 2:00 this Saturday (weather permitting), I’ll head over to Don Scott Air Force Base to meet the good folks at The New Flyer’s Association and fly a Piper under Richard’s careful instruction.

Wish me luck, and hope I don’t crash and burn. (Ba dum bum.) I’ll have the full story (plus videos) on Monday.

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Today’s Cool Thing

This trailer for BBC’s Human Planet has some of the most incredible footage I’ve ever seen.

I’m not kidding. It will take your breath away.

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#27: Maura Joins the Circus

(This is not me.)

The ladder I’m climbing is orange, 50 feet tall and mostly sturdy. If I look straight ahead, I can hold my balance. If I look up, the room starts to sway. I can’t tell you what it’s like to look down. I haven’t tried that yet, and I don’t think I want to.

Before I started this climb, three-year-old O assured me that the teal, corset-like harness around my waist looks awesome—something a storm trooper would wear. Cool or not, I’m just glad it’s functional. Joe, my trapeze instructor from the Cincinnati Circus Company and the Flying Trapeze School, has attached me to two long and sturdy chords. If I slip, the chords will activate like a seatbelt, and I’ll hang flopping and suspended—a strange turn of events for my 27th 36×37 assignment.

At the top of the ladder I step on a scaffold that hangs from the ceiling. That’s where I meet Shane and Carl. It’s clear from the start they don’t want me to joke around; if I don’t know how dangerous this is, at least they do. Shane exchanges the dual chords for the rope he attaches to the back of my belt. Meanwhile, Carl clings to the scaffold with this left hand and left foot, and lets his right half hang dubiously above the safety net. He grabs the bar and holds it steady for my reach.

“Ok, hang your toes off the edge.” Shane says. “I have you by the belt. Raise your arms, straighten your back, stick out your hips and lean forward as far as you can.” And so I do. I grab the bar. From that grip to the time of my launch, I have 10 seconds to get my head right.

~*~

Sometimes I joke that I’m not afraid of anything—that I was born without the gene that keeps most people out of situations like this. At 2 AM some mornings, in an honest moment, I can acknowledge that maybe I do have a few fears, and they’re significant. It occurs to me now that perhaps falling should be one of them.

“Maura, are you ready?”

“Ready!”

“Go!”

Go? I forget what that means. But then I take a step. And then I’m flying.

It’s one of those rare instances in life where you process nothing beyond what you see. I think: Net. Wall. Floor. Carpet. Net. When the instructors tell me to drop, I’m not paying attention. I just fly brainlessly until it feels like I should stop. Then I open my fingers and fall in a way that feels slow, labored, ungraceful and unspeakably fantastic.

What you can’t see—what you probably can’t observe from the floor—is my fire-flood of coursing adrenaline. The carelessness of letting go. The assurance of being caught. And in between, a pendulum swing of flight. Unbelievable.

When I stand up, I am hell bent and ravenous. I scan the others in class with me: a couple on a quest to beat back boredom, four pretty grad students giving adventure a try. I like them—I’m glad this is my group. But I’d fight them for a chance to fly again.

~*~

Joe teaches us how to hang from our knees. “When you get to the top of that swing, you’ll be weightless,” he says. “Get your timing right, and in that moment, you can do anything.”

Well, sign me up, I think.

On my second flight, I lose my nerve. On my third flight, I resolve to (wo)man up just to see what will happen. At the top of my swing, I quickly discover that weightlessness doesn’t feel weightless at all. When I draw up my knees to tuck, my toes brush the bar then fall back to the familiar comfort  of gravity. The moment was there and I missed it. I bite my cheek in disappointment, but it’s nearly 10—two hours past my sons’ bedtimes. I thank my instructors and head home.

During the drive back to Columbus, I list people I can recruit to join me on my next flight: my book club? Some moms I know? The elderly? Total strangers? All that night, I dream of clutching the bar and stepping from the edge.

In the morning, I wake feeling out of sorts. I am grounded, and physics is laughing and pointing. Three days later I still can’t shake it. Three days later, I still curl my toes on the edge of the scaffold, poised to jump.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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Luv Songs.

(via static.technorati.com)

Love: Hard to describe.

So hard, in fact, that the Greeks have four different words for it: Storge (love of family); Philia (affection between friends); Eros (sexual attraction) and Agape (unconditional love).

That linguistic breakdown helps, but it still doesn’t get it quite right. Love is too large and nuanced to divide into simple quarters. Each relationship would need to pick and evolve its own title to represent itself fully.

Consider: How is your relationship like anyone else’s? It isn’t. Therefore, let the writers in the room line up and shoot me for saying this: Words are too pedestrian to do the job.

That’s where music steps in as the great, bold communicator of the heart. With the right lyrics, composition and requisite bass drum, it can trap you in an emotion like you’re seated in a room, thinking eerily: “I’ve been in this place before. I’ve been here, and everything is exactly as I left it.”

So. On this great Hallmark Holiday of love, I give you a Valentine’s Day soundtrack of the most universal “rooms” I can think of. (We’ll stick with the Eros/Agape wings of the house today—after all, they’re the fussy little architects behind the strange confection of February 14.) May you find a room that suits you so you can sit for a while. Then may you stay put or move on as Cupid dictates.

~*~

Hopeful risk taking

Or, sullen denial

Elated discovery

Wistful Longevity

Unraveling

Getting the bad news

Stunned heartbreak

Low-down, busted dejectedness

Obstinate resolve

loneliness, longing and regret

Moving on

(Happy Valentine’s Day to All)

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#27 is coming… learn to fly, trapeze style

Here’s what I’ll be doing tomorrow night.

Well, not this exactly, but close enough.

At promptly 7PM, I’ll meet up with a group of people I don’t know, and we’ll all take a 90 minute trapeze lesson with the Cincinnati Circus Company and the Flying Trapeze School. It’s the 27th item on my list of 36×37 assignments.

I’ll be the one in yoga pants, falling repeatedly and laughing my fool head off. Wish me luck; I’m going to need it.

(Happy Valentine’s Day weekend to you and yours. I’ll give you the play-by-play next week, complete with action videos!)

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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Love and Idiocy (Or, What NOT to Give on Valentine’s Day)

(google image)

It’s February 13, 1993. I’m 19 and finally ready to acknowledge the crush I have on that Sigma Alpha Epsilon boy I’ve been talking to. We’ve been on a few dates, had long late night phone calls, met up at bourbon-soaked parties…clearly, things are going well. I don’t yet know about his long-term girlfriend or the furious embarrassment I’ll endure when I find out about her later that spring, so at this particular moment, all systems are “go.”

I bum a ride from a friend, and together we head to that shining beacon of light we small-town Danville, KY, Centre College students call “Walmart” to hit the candy and card aisles as hard as we can. I buy lovely amounts of chocolate—some for me, some for the boy—and pour his share into a glass jar I’ve tied with a festive curl of red silk ribbon. Pièce de résistance: the painting of his name across the front of the jar, followed by the spraying of perfume so I can wave his Valentine’s Day card through the falling mist. (Oh, le sigh.)

On my way to cheerleading practice, I stop by the campus post office and hand my gift (and all my pride) to the postmistress. She looks at the name on the jar and raises an eyebrow in interest. “You don’t say…” she says and smiles knowingly as I wave goodbye.

I spend the next 24 hours in fits and knots of anxiety. The phone rings, and it’s never for me. My campus mailbox is empty at dinner time. I cover my head with my pillow and commence the practiced art of indignant sulking.

At 9 or so, the telephone rings, and it’s the boy. My roommate winks and discretely leaves the room.

“Did you send me a jar of chocolates today through campus mail?” the boy asks without saying hello. He sounds like he’s smiling, but I can’t quite tell for sure.

“Maaaybe,” I say. I hope I sound coy enough to disguise my dripping, crawling, aching swirl of nervousness.

“Did you also maaaybe spray that chocolate with perfume?” he asks.

There is only the slightest pause. And then, at least five males erupt with laughter on the other end of the phone line. I picture them all, yucking it up at my mortified expense.

“Whatever scent you wear,” I barely hear him say, “It tastes a lot like bug spray.”

~*~

And so: Valentine’s Day was not always my favorite holiday. There are many, many disastrous stories akin to the one above. You’ll either have to serve me a few shots of tequila and cross your fingers or wait until next Valentine’s Day to hear more.

In the meantime, let’s just leave it with this public service announcement: Don’t be an idiot on Valentine’s Day. It’s only a few short days away, so be sure to come to the breakfast table prepared to woo your sweetheart. It’s up to you to make sure he or she is pleased (rather than poisoned by 1990’s-era-“Rapture”-by-Victoria’s-Secret-coated chocolates) on Monday morning.

CNN.com posted Time Magazine’s “What NOT to Give” guide, and for the sake of preserving your own pride and embarrassment, I’m posting it now.

10 Ways to Say \”I Love You\”: The Most Ridiculous Valentine\’s Day Gifts on the Market

(Personally, I’d be fine with a chocolate Smart Car. The Snuggie-sutra is good for a laugh, but that’s probably all. Too much cotton-blend.)

Now, tell me: What’s the worst Valentine’s Day gift you’ve ever given or received? Sound off in the comments below. Let the embarrassing stories fly!

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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Blackout!

via unplggd.com

It’s Tuesday, and my day has been peppered with small talk about the impending storm. My Chicago-based colleagues hunker down for a 16-inch snowfall while Columbus falls prey to a long and unforgiving sheen of ice.

Inside, though, it’s warm from the steam of a jolly evening bath time. My jammied boys sit cross-legged beside me as I read from a child’s version of Oliver Twist. I don my best Cockney accent, stopping only when the lights flicker. Then the room turns black, and my scrubbed and smiling buddies fall to pieces.

“Whoa, whoa, guys,” I say. “It’s ok! Let’s go to Snoozetown. I bet the power will be on again by morning. ”

“I don’t wike when it’s dark!” O wails. “I’m realwy, realwy scared!” H tucks his head against my arm and whimpers in agreement.

“It’s ok!” I say again, trying my best to sound reassuring. “I’ll stay in here with you tonight. We’ll have fun, like a sleepover! Let’s tell stories.”

But the crying continues. I try a few more distractions before busting out my fail-safe plan: “Who wants to watch YouTube on my phone?” I ask.

The crying instantly stops. They giggle through two episodes of Fish Hooks before they finally nod off.

 

via Disney

I follow suit eventually but wake at 2AM to dwell on the melting ice cream in the freezer downstairs. I consider relocating it to the snow, but these fine, warm blankies anchor me to my pillow.

On Wednesday morning, the roads are too bad to drive to the office, and all the schools have closed. I resolve to seek shelter, so we descend upon my parents’ house. “Thanks for letting us stay!” I gush as we step into warmth and light. I spend the day working from the kitchen table while the boys dig into the toy box. My parents look happy. We have bacon sandwiches for lunch just to celebrate.

~*~

It’s a funny thing to be a guest in your parents’ house. The last time I slept here, I hung my wedding dress in their room and stayed up with my maid of honor until 2 AM. I remember laughing endlessly the way we always did when we were together. At some point, though, that laughter took a weepy turn.

“Why are you crying?” Erinn asked. “Don’t you want to be married?”

“No, I do!” I sniffed. “I’m not crying because of GB.”

“Well then what?” She urged gently. Her face was awash with concern. I think she half expected me to spill some sordid tale of betrayal and intrigue.

I just shook my head and stared at my hands.

There are things you take for granted as a kid. The sound of your dad grinding coffee in the morning. Your mother working the New York Times crossword over tea. You and your brother bounding down the steps in jammies and socks. Calling, “I’m home!” after a long day at school. I wanted to hold these things up to explain my pre-wedding sob-fest. But how can you ever explain the stuff of a happy childhood.

Now I tuck my boys into that nostalgic sense of safety. They sit like baby dolls in the room where I grew up. “I wish I knew about you when I was small,” I say as I kiss their tiny noses. “I never knew I’d have so much to look forward to.”

~*~

Thursday, I log on to the office from my childhood desk. I stare out the window as I run conference calls and make recommendations. The apple tree outside has grown so tall it now blocks my view of the rest of the neighborhood.

My mom knocks on the door to check her e-mail. “Come downstairs and work!” she says. “It’s quiet down there.”

“I will….” I say. “I want to. Just a few more calls.”

She smiles and shuts the door behind her. As she goes, I smell the unmistakable aroma of a roast cooking in the oven downstairs. I lean back in my chair and inhale deeply.

~*~

An hour later, GB calls to say we have power again. I’m equal parts relieved and sorry to hear the news. “We should stay for dinner,” I say. “My parents have been cooking all afternoon.” But it’s just an excuse; I have two helpings, load the dishwasher and do everything I can to put off leaving this house again.

When we finally do arrive home, the boys run from room to room. They switch on every light they can find, shouting each time they see a toy they missed while we were away. GB cleans out the now nasty refrigerator while I make my way to the grocery store. I pull favorites off the shelves, making a mental note to add bacon to Saturday’s pancake breakfast, just to see my guys bound down the steps with added fervor.

When they’re adults, maybe they’ll look back and remember falling asleep under my parents’ roof, loving the creaking floors and the glow of the nightlight through the crack of the door.

But even more, I hope they’ll remember what it’s like when the power surges back and the rooms start to warm and the house is how they left it and it’s unspeakably great to finally be back home.

~*~ Find Maura on Twitter @36×37
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