Day One, bedtime: "Look kids! It's starting to sleet. Isn't it pretty? When I was a little girl, growing up in Michigan....."
Day Two, 5am: phone rings, announcing school is canceled. Hit alarm button and roll over until 8:30am.
Day Two, 8:31am: screams from kitchen "MOM!!! I'm hungry. Will you PLEASE get up?"
Drag myself out of bed. Actually enjoy cooking a leisurely breakfast of waffles, eggs, and bacon. Drink more coffee than should be allowed by law.
Day Two, 11am: screams from master bedroom bath: "MMMMOOOOMMMMMAAAAAJJJJJ! Crap!!"
Discover that Tex, who has REFUSED to go outside the door since last night, has relieved himself, #2 style, on the floor of the bathroom. By the time I arrive, the #1 stream has started, no doubt urged on by Mike's screaming within an inch of the dog's ears.
Day Two, 11:01am: screams from the master bathroom bath, as I am leaving the room: "GET HIM OUT THE DOOR! NOW!"
I am attempting to drag Tex outside when his bladder just lets out a flood of Biblical proportions, starting midway through the living room and ending on one of the kid's coats, which was "hung" on the floor in the kitchen.
Day Two, noonish: Act like a short order chef and give everyone exactly what they want for lunch. Rather enjoy my time in the kitchen, save the clean-up.
Day Two, multiple times between noon and 4:00pm: With tummies satisfied and the movie Secretariat watched, boredom sets in.
"Mom? What can I do?" said with no irony, as children stand within two feet of 1,543 Legos, a dozen board games, three sets of cards, and one giant TV with enough DVDs/Wii and XBox games to launch a family entertainment emporium. Not to mention, within spitting distance of three families in the same predicament.
Day Two, dinnertime: Cooking for the crew is getting older by the minute. Decide to skip pork loin scheduled for tonight and make something everyone can get on board with: pasta. Biggest complaint? No seconds.
Day Two, 10 o'clock newscast: Discover school is canceled yet again tomorrow; rejoice in one more weekday to sleep in later than normal.
Almost simultaneously learn that the cold water is not running at all in the bathroom. Watch weather forecaster announce single-digit temperatures and raging wind overnight.
Calculate the cost of our insurance deductible as compared with emergency fund.
Day Three, 7:00am: Noise. What IS THAT NOISE? Recognize the sound of someone opening the pantry and getting the Sun Chips compostable bag out.* Scream "Stay out of the chips. I'll make breakfast soon."
Day Three, 8:00am: Serve a much-less aggressive breakfast than the day before, with the microwave as my wing man.
Drink more coffee than the day before.
Day Three, 8:45am: Notice coffee appears to have spilled when I poured it. Getting closer to the carafe, notice it looks like a toddler wearing oven mitts must have attempted to pour said coffee as it is all over the place.
Closer inspection reveals massive, catastrophic crack in bottom of carafe. Clean up huge spill, determine that there is no glass in the coffee, and continue drinking the rest. Panic slightly until I realize that I learned to make coffee on the stove last February when we had NO POWER for almost two days.
Remind myself I can do anything unsavory if there is a time limit indicated.
Day Three, noon: Boys have discovered that friends are, indeed, still alive, in houses up and down the neighborhood. All that stands between them and a play date is bundling up.
They fight like hungry lions to wear only hoodies and sock less shoes, but are driven back indoors for the obligatory "Christmas Story" tick outfit when they realize "HEY. It's really, really, really cold out there."
No stuff, Sherlock.
Day Three, 3pm: Finish all Christmas cards. (Don't reread that sentence; it said what you think it said. Yours is likely coming soon.) Decide to take them to the mailbox.
Bundle up like I mean it and trek outdoors, only to discover the mail lady is rounding the corner at the end of the street. Gingerly walk out onto the ice and have a nice chat that includes the phrases "Maintenance crew", "Over the curb", and "Fell three times". Thank her for getting out in this weather and have a good laugh over the cards.
Day Three, 3:05pm: Thank God that I have a warm home to come back into.
Day Three, 4:00pm: Thank God, again, that I decided to do our weekly grocery shopping on Mondays. Plan to get pork loin on menu from last night in oven.
Day Three, 4:15pm: Get sidetracked, with Mike, by Oprah. Waste 45 minutes.
Only interrupted once by kids, who have discovered "We DO have lots of video games to play" and are going about systematically beating each other's high scores to a bloody pulp with their wireless controllers.
Day Three, 5:00pm: Curious if school is going to be canceled again, wait to see what Pete Delkus has to say. Arrow prayer that the ice will magically disappear overnight.
Shot down by Mother Nature. Sanity is slowly slipping as the time of our nature-imposed vacation is being exponentially increased.
Day Three, 5:13pm: Plumber calls back. Water still not working. Damage probably already done. Suggests we have the water main key ready for the impending pipe burst. In the mean time, we can do our best by buying a space heater and trying to keep the pipes warm and happy.
Mike states he'll go to Home Depot.
Day Three, 5:43pm: Even though there are only two items I've asked him to pick up, Mike INSISTS I write a list.
Resulting list has two items on it: beer and space heater. I remind him that the former is the most important of the two items. And educate him on the ramifications of returning without the liquor.
Day Three, 6:33pm: Realize the oven does a good job heating the kitchen when it is left untouched, yet running, for two hours. Realize the loin will have to wait another night as I'd like to watch "The Middle" and "Modern Family" in peace and that isn't conducive to a one-hour cook time.
Modify dinner plans again; result looks remarkably like "breakfast".
Day Three, 6:45pm: As semi-warm heat is hitting me in the face, I realize we have another 24 hours of this joy to work through. Pray Coors truck made it to the local grocery.
Determine to put on my big girl panties and deal with it.
Until hubby returns with no space heater and warm beer, off the shelf not out of the cooler. Bang myself on the head with my hand because I forgot to indicate "COLD" in front of the word beer.
Ask myself "How much worse can it get?"** And realize, I really think that should stay a rhetorical question.
*Good gracious. Have you heard these bags? I think the sound could be used as a weapon of torture.
**Think of the edge of reason and tip yourself over the edge.
That will almost describe being on the brink of three days of cabin fever in Dallas, Texas, where the temperature is 5 and we are all thinking "I've read that God said no more floods. Is there a clause in there I've missed that says blizzards and blazing cold temperatures will be in the forecast?"
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