My Scotch-Irish husband channeled his inner Jewish grandmother and fried up platefuls of crispy, delicious latkes. As the snow continued to fall, we dined by candlelight.
I went out into the night (wearing croc moccasins with no socks.) The world was hushed and shimmering.
John Harper pretended to be Ralphie. We pushed him around in the stroller up and down the icy street.
Grady walked around and around our neighborhood. He slid down hills and shoveled snow.
He was amazed.
We baked and baked and ate and ate.
I looked at my children and my heart was completely full of them.
I caught my husband's eye and was perfectly content.
All weekend long.