Today, I’m writing over at Deeper Family about how I discovered my daughter, my mother and I are more alike than I imagined.
I lay in bed waiting for the heater to kick on. The alarm had sounded, once, twice, three times before I finally convinced myself the sound was not in my dreams. Mom and Dad made the small noises of morning, a mug from the cupboard, a brush in the shaving cup, rings sliding against the shower rod. Then, the one I lived to hear: the short thunk of the register blasting to life, and close on its heels, the rush of blessed hot air forced into our cold, dark winter rooms.
The night before, I gathered my clothes. This was the key to optimum warmth. The bathroom, the warmest room in the house, was mere steps away, and I didn’t want to waste any of them being cold. I grabbed the pile of clothes and shot through the hall to the bathroom. There, I put my clothes over the heating register on the floor, shut the bathroom door against more cold air and ran turn-your-skin-pink hot water. If I timed it right, the heat from the register and the shower made the bathroom my own personal sauna.