Fireside

It is cold here.  When I dropped Harrison off at school today my car’s thermometer read –7 degrees, despite the fact that the sun was up and blazing brightly in the sky.  This is the kind of cold that causes any moisture in your nose or mouth to freeze when you inhale, the kind of cold that takes your breath away.   It makes our skin dry, our hair alive with static electricity, and makes going outside for any length of time with two small children out of the question.  And so it is that we find ourselves  hunkered down in the house, with blankets and sweaters and extra thick socks to keep us warm.  Slippers would be nice, but Harry, Emma, and I all seem to be in need of that particular wardrobe item. 
Our woodstove is working overtime this week, and we feel so lucky to have it. I love sitting next to it and absorbing the heat it radiates.  I love watching the flames dance and wiggle in their effort to spread warmth throughout our home.  I especially love our stove at night after the kids have had a bath, when we wrap them into their bathrobes and send them out to sit in front of the fire.  We stayed there for over an hour last night, until well past bedtime, just telling each other stories, singing lullabies, listening to the kids’ amusing chatter, and soaking up the coziness of family and love and warmth before bundling them into their footie pajamas and then off to bed.  It was simple and lovely, made more so because it was nothing planned, just a spontaneous moment in which each of us declined to mention mundane things like bed time and tooth brushing.  It strikes me that so often the best of times, the very best memories I have with my husband and my children, are those that come about completely on accident.