We survived Snowmaggedon. But now that the forty-five inches of white stuff we got are melting, and Tug, our Golden, is anything but, I almost miss it.
Of course neither my husband nor I miss having our sons home for thirteen straight school days. That's right; thirteen. I had a maternity leave that didn't last that long. Talk about the perils of self-employment.
At first, both boys were only too happy with the sudden instructional interlude and found lots of fun ways to enjoy themselves. And then they got bored and things really got recreational. Right this second there isn't a Zoloft left in the house. And they put a darn good dent in the Jack Daniels, too.
The back to back snowstorms left us with a nice dusting of dead chickens, several rodents seeking respite (not to mention squatters' rights) in our utensil drawer, and a clutch of cows in the back yard. For the first time in the five years we've lived in the country, the cattle guard behind our house filled with snow and froze solid. And then, as I watched from the kitchen window, a dozen or so momma cows, baby cows, and at least one bull strolled out of the pasture, past our pickup truck, and up to the mud porch; they were too late for breakfast, so I gave them what was left of the boys' bourbon.
We were very blessed in that we never lost power, ran out of pain medication, or had to make a hospital run which, frankly, we couldn't have as the Virginia Department of Transportation had our road closed in both directions for two days. In fact, probably the worst thing that happened was that our satellite went down. This was bad because we missed the start of the Olympics. But it was good because we escaped the unending weather reports and the stultifying "What's Topper's Real Name?" guessing game our local news had going.
I don't know what Topper's real name is, and I don't care what Topper's real name is. I only know I'm stuck in the house, with a sick husband, two squabbling sons, a dwindling supply of wine, and the growing possibility I'll make the police blotter if you don't put The Big Bang Theory back on.
We were also lucky in that five of my husband's high school friends braved the weather and came for a visit. They brought several wonderful books for him, Super Bowl tee shirts for the boys, and plants for me. Despite my black-thumbed reputation, I've never actually killed a plant. Though my presence does seem to drive them to suicide.
By the time school recommenced, the kids had eaten through all the junk food, the sugar coated cereals, the non sugar coated cereals that they coated in sugar, the ice cream, the frozen cookie dough, and two packages of Swedish Fish they found behind the couch. They were slathering red grapes in Hershey's syrup so as not to go into withdrawal when we got the call that both school and our road were finally open.
Whew.
They left for class, and we left for chemo and a tumor count. Last summer, when we began the pancreatic cancer odyssey, my husband's tumor marker, a.k.a. his CA 19-9, was just under eight thousand. Eight thousand. Last Wednesday, it was thirteen. In case you don't know, and I sincerely hope you don't, anything under thirty-seven is considered normal.
Double, triple, quadruple, whew.
Of course he still has to go for treatment, and we've got to get some meat back on his bones (so please, send Swedish Fish; yeah, they were his). But for the first time in a long time he's making big plans for this place.
Once the weather warms up, he's going to get back to farming, planting, and driving the tractor all over God's green earth. Sounds good to me. Particularly since, when that happens, he'll also resume dog de-muddying duty. Which I must attend to now, as Tug, of course, is covered.
Susan McCorkindale writes about life on the funny farm on her daily blog, or just buy the book, Confessions of a Counterfeit Farm Girl.
An original DC Metro Moms post.
