First of the Season

I'm probably going to get in trouble for saying this.

I'm excited about the hard freeze forecasted for tonight.

Most residents of Minnesota fear this day, when a 70-degreed blue-skied October day takes a sharp turn to cold that points towards the months ahead.  Months of digging cars out of from snow, loosing an average of 1 mitten per week, adding 20 minutes to the morning routine just to get everybody's winter gear on.  Runny noses, getting up in the dark, sharp winds that will ensure you will never fully get warm again for another five months.

But tonight's freeze welcomes in the first fire of the season, right here in our living room.  When we built our previous house, I was thrilled to have a fireplace with no maintenance, that turned on and off at the convenient flip of a switch.  I never knew what I was missing. Now, in our midcentury fireplace, there is no loud fan for cooling, no glass making it impossible to roast s'mores in our living room, and oh: there's real fire.  Fire that crackles. Logs that tumble as they disintegrate. The potential to start with a small flame, watch it rise and billow, dwindle to embers, and then resurrect itself back into a roar.  Michael built a fire just like this tonight, and it's going on 3 hours now, making the first of the season drawn out and intoxicating.

While we sat entranced on the couch, we heard the padding of 4-year-old feet, and Charlie, sleepwalking and disoriented, walked right out of his room and into ours.  Michael brought him back into the living room and laid him in my arms to snuggle.  He fell asleep on me with such surrender, such trust, his whole weight draped over me, and I wept. Charlie was not a snuggler as a baby, or even a toddler.  He was more content to get himself to sleep, frequently pushing my hand away when I tried to rub his back.  His tolerance for being rocked was short, and rarely did he fall asleep in our arms.  So now, as his breath deepened and slowed, his head on my chest, I let myself simply be in the moment, savoring this rare gift of Charlie asleep in my arms.

Ten minutes or so later, Michael gently picked Charlie up in a cradled hold, and very, very slowly, walked him back to bed. I watched this precious silhouette, Michael looking down at our youngest, Charlie's wild hair hanging off of Michael's right arm, his little feet draped over his left.  I was reminded of one of my earliest memories, when our family retreated to the basement of our South Minneapolis home during a tornado warning.  My sister and I were giddy to be up in the middle of the night, snuggling in our cartoon-character sleeping bags.  When the warning had passed, I pretended to be in a deep sleep, in hopes that my Dad would carry me upstairs back into bed. There is something so very precious in being parented, and tenderly cared for.

Charlie went back to bed, Michael went to bed, and I curled up in my softest fleece pajamas on the carpet in front of the burning embers. I reached for a fuzzy blanket and hugged it close, my hands wrapped around a piece of fringe like a child.  And there I dozed; warm, happy, and cared for.