Snowglobe is all you think it is: a romantic ice-skate on a snowy night in Washington, DC. Elizabeth and Jamie talk candidly about the blessing to their marriage that was their fresh start in DC, naivety working in one’s favor, and a Thanksgiving that lives in infamy.
Hoss and Nana are “big city” grandparents. They live about four hours away from us, so they don’t get to spend as much time with the children as they’d like, but summertime means special trips and changes in scenery. So, last week the boys were camping with them in north Georgia.
With both Jamie and me working fulltime, the boys’ school breaks would be very difficult to manage if we didn’t have grandparents as willing volunteers to “keep” them. It’s special when they can go to Atlanta, too. It’s good for them to get away from us and their old routine.
Selfishly, I also appreciate the time gifted to just Jamie and me. As I often do, I romanticize the week without children. I imagine we will read our favorite books in the living room, television turned off, gazing at each other lovingly in the silence. Or, binge-watch “Downton Abbey” in our pajamas and eat take-out. Maybe we could pack a picnic and go out to the farm, where the stars really shine and sip chilled wine and talk in the quiet.
“Babe, we might have to call somebody,” I said, using the small, quiet, whispery voice I use when I’m breaking bad news. After the thorough cleaning I’d already given it, the smell emanating from the refrigerator should’ve disappeared, but it hadn’t. Within 24 hours it had gone from curious and off-putting to unbearable, and I was convinced, potentially toxic.
“Hey, I really need you to look at something.” I was loading the dishwasher when Jamie got my attention. At our house this sentence can mean one of about three things: 1) I need you to look at a really cool work something on my computer. 2) I need you to look at the unusually picture-worthy position the children are in right now. 3) I need you to look at this spot, lump, mole, etc. I knew from his tone, we were in number three territory.