Last night, the heat went out.
I should have expected it. The heat went out last time I was about to birth a child, so it’s only logical that it do the same for baby Bandas #2. It wouldn’t be so bad except that it’s a measly 37 degrees outside (I know, I’m a northerner, but these Tennessee winters have made me soft) and Oliver is fighting off his umpteenth cough of the season.
With all these factors to consider, I’ve decided to declare a “Bandas Family State of Emergency” and hunker down under blankets with my first born and watch Dinosaur Train until our brains turns to mush – or at least until we can name all the different types of theropod dinos, whichever comes first.
Now, I’m normally not a big fan of TV. For Oliver, not for me. I love television; don’t get confused on that point. But generally speaking, I’m not super into plopping down in the middle of the day and zoning out when there’s like, a least a $1,000 worth of toys scattered all over the living room floor. Kids have brains for a reason and the reason isn’t so they can watch Netflix and play on their mom’s iPad all day.
But I digress. Today is an emergency. Today my fingers are freezing off as I type and there’s a weird smell coming from the vents all over the house. I want to keep hope alive that order will soon be restored and I can emerge from beneath the ugly, lopsided blanket I crocheted three years ago, but with each passing episode of DT, another little piece of me dies. Due in no small part to the fact that according to the gentleman from the HVAC company, “The heater’s working, it’s just not blowing hot air.” Now I’m not a trained professional, but that’s exactly how I would describe a heater that’s not working.
But what do I know? I’m just a woman.
So until the temperature inside our house goes above 55 degrees, here I shall sit, eating Trader Joe’s chocolate and silently cursing myself for not investing in a pair of those touchscreen gloves so that I might play on my iPhone without getting frostbite.