Anyone who knew me between the ages of, oh, 7 and 15, knows I was completely obsessed with Little House on the Prairie. I would have given anything to be Laura Ingalls, and I even wrote a letter to Michael Landon proposing that he remake the Little House TV series starring. . . me. (Although I'm not sure I ever sent the letter).
Stick with me. . .
I returned home on Sunday evening from our week away in southern Norway, on solo parenting duty, with a crabby, hungry 2 year old child, and a hyper, hungry 5.9 year old dog (she is nearly 6, you see). It was 6 pm, we had been traveling since 9 am, and I entered the house to find that it was 53 degrees!!!
This usually would not be a big problem, however, we have not yet turned on our heat. A few weeks ago, I asked Erik if turning on the heat was a quick flick of a switch, and he said "no, not really. It's a little more involved than that." But there was no urgent need for heat at that time, so we didn't do it.
At 6 pm on Sunday evening, there was urgent need for heat. So, I did what any self-respecting Laura Ingalls Wilder wannabe would do: I hauled a load of wood up from the basement, and built us a fire in our fireplace. And at 7 am this morning, with the house back down into the mid 50s, I did the same thing. By 9 am, the house was toasty warm. At 10 pm, I am proud to report that the house is. . . 72 degrees! As Erik put it (as he is still down in southern Norway), I essentially "chain-smoked" the fireplace all day. That I did, and I'm rather proud of it.
This morning, as I struggled to get the initial flames to take (despite the use of the technological wonder that is a highly flammable fire-starter packet), I had a brief vision of Laura bent over her fire with a cold, hungry Baby Rose behind her. As self-sufficient as I may have felt at that moment, I also realized how very glad I was to be living in the 21st century.
And then I drank my cappuccino. Dressed in fleece.