Storms, Big and Small

We ran away from home, me and the kids, a four-day weekend of our own devious, skipping school design, to hang out with my mom in the woods of Connecticut. We planned to ski together, me and the kids and my mom, and we did -- though briefly: rain and wind and slushy snow made short work of our plans. Instead, we played Boggle and ate birthday cake and tried to buy a raincoat for a dog.

Funny stuff happened, including Rory asking me, pretty much apropos of nothing, "Were you ugly in college?" I explained that though I was six inches taller than I am now and had jet black, pin-straight hair and a thick German accent, I was, in fact, gorgeous. Mom, she said, on to my charade, so wikkid smaht is she: you were never tall.

Right, I said. I was never tall. Or German.

The storm got worse. My mother donned a green boa and sleek leather boots and left with corned beef for a St. Patrick's Day party at the club. I listened to the exhaust vent of her oven slam shut and open again with the wind. I might have seen bears wander the perimeter of her house and so kept the pup, the appetizer, on a short leash. I wondered if you could hear a tree fall and if so, how much time you might have to dodge it.

I was relieved to remember that my mother always drives like her house is on fire, so I knew she could speed past the falling trunks of death -- which was a weird reversal of worry, I know. I put the kids to bed, extra covers of down to cushion the blow of some giant pine, and I realized how well I love cities. Even Small Towns! Places where cops and firefighters are just a block or so away and not a county -- a county! -- away.

Trouble averted, we woke to mostly drizzle and I packed and they played and we left. Somewhere near Sturbridge, I began my white-knuckling.

With 15 feet of visibility, I had to ignore their pissing matches and "mom, tell her to" somethings, because I just wanted us to live another day. I wanted to make distance from giant trucks and just follow the kind tail lights of some gentle, 55-driving minivan. I would have killed for a cigarette. I would have pulled over, but I kept thinking: this will get better. It never did. I wanted someone to take over, carrieunderwood-the-wheel. I was scared. It was scary. I kept it to myself.

Our warm and cleaned-up house felt like cinnamon toast to me. Everyone was home and we were all together, and just like when I left -- fun mom all the time! -- I had the same good intentions for our return -- nice wife all the time!

Instead, I begged him to take the kids out to dinner and he did. Instead, I asked for quiet and he gave it to me. Instead of giving, I asked to be given to.

The soft whir of a pump sends the water from our basement to the street. He takes his children to their beds and reads to each while I cling far too lovingly to these minutes of alone. The wind whips less. The storm has teeth to it yet: some more wind will blow and who knows how the windows will stand...

I hold my breath. I let some stranger kid tell the rest: