On blizzards, stress headaches, and homemade Americanos

This winter, it seems, has some old scores to settle. If we count the mid-December event, we have had 3 blizzards in accord with the technical definition of the term (wind gusts up to 35 mph).

For all of last week, I and the entire mid-Atlantic were marooned. Snowbound. This gift of schedule disruption and stays of execution was undermined considerably by a days' long muscle spasm headache, the onset of which I can trace directly to being on a customer service call with Sprint on the Friday things really started. By Wednesday night, I was still popping 4-5 ibuprofen tablets every few hours.

But I still managed to find the relief and thrill in things as simple as sleeping in.

Before a single flake fell, my sister and I went to get my mom so she could be snowed in with us. I thought that by day 2 or 3, it might be somewhat annoying for all of us. Instead, I have reconnected with the part of me that knows what it's like to be taken care of and wants that more than anything.

As I worked from home, graded students' papers, and generally bemoaned my spasmy headache; she made me lunch, snacks, and rubbed my back. I did not realize how much I had missed her company.

In the evenings when all the three of us and the dog could do was part the slats of the balcony blinds and look out in wonder at our blanketed smothering, I sipped homemade vanilla lattes, cappuccinos, and Americanos and thought, prosaically, about the abundance of everything.

I usually wish deeply for a boy in these situations. What a waste not to be snowed in with the benefit of sexual tension to keep things interesting and cozy. Lately, though, like the grass and seedlings such wants are dormant in me.

So, my girls and I--Mom, C, and our doggie--dug in deep. We watched sitcoms in syndication, wondered when we'd ever get out, and simultaneously hoped that the weather's grip on us would not loosen. Not yet.