A Moving Story

He picked up a handful of snow--and another, and still another.
He packed it round and firm and put the snowball in his pocket
for tomorrow. Then he went into his warm house.

It's from The Snowy Day by Ezra Jack Keats, one of our favorite books. It was the first book Harper read enough to memorize and now Hudson is also a big fan. Every time I read that page, I think about what masterful storytelling it is. Take out the word "warm" and there goes the conflict. Poor Peter checks on his snowball before bed and finds nothing but a wet pocket.

Well, we are all moved. Hence the blogging absence. For the FIFTH time in our five years of marriage, the husband exhibited his superhuman moving skills. He sent the kids and me away to my parents' house and did all of the packing and moving himself. Though we did pay for movers to do the heavy lifting this time. The kids and I came back on Sunday and as we were exulting in all of the rooms! and the yard! and the porch swing! the air conditioner died. Um hm. Yes it did. Perhaps our enthusiasm scared it. Now, a little back story. I myself am not generally a fan of air conditioning. I like to keep the thermostat at about 80. Much lower than that and I need a sweater. I have a whole stack of 'house cardigans' that I keep in my closet. And it just seems unnatural and ridiculous to be so cold inside when it is 827 degrees centigrade outside. BUT. But. It turns out that if your AC dies in Houston in summertime it gets much hotter than 80 degrees in your house. It was 92 degrees in our bedroom and, in Helena's bedroom (more on that in a minute) which has the only window that faces due west, the thermometer read 101. INSIDE the window. Thankfully, after about 12 hours, the AC magically came back on. However, this little on-again, off-again relationship has replayed three times this week, including today. We are now on a first name basis with the AC repairman (hi Carlos!). In a second fun twist, the owner of the house also has decided to re-do our master bathroom. So since Thursday morning we've been sharing the house with the tile guys (hi Pedro! hi Kevin!) and not sharing the house with our toilet, which is sitting outside on the deck. Tearing out 55 year old tile is a noisy, dusty business, but it's going to be really nice to have a brand new bathroom. This is, incidentally, why Helena is in her very own room a little before I had planned. She was NOT a fan of the 101 degrees in her very own room so the husband went and bought her her very own window unit. If anyone is keeping a check list, it looks like this:

1. toilet in yard (check!)
2. window unit (check!)
3. large pile of 55 year old tile debris in driveway (check!)

So obviously the neighbors are all realizing what a boon we are to their property values. But we are home. The husband mowed the lawn today with a brand new push mower. And in another week we will have finished unpacking the boxes which are still stacked to the ceiling in the study. And, hopefully, Carlos will have found the ghost in the machine. We'll say goodbye to Pedro and Kevin. The toilet will be returned to its rightful place. We will be here. In our house that is warm, but not hot.