Blessed boredom

Like 680,000 other people here in the Motor City, a windstorm knocked out our power four days ago.

We spent the first two nights of the power outage at home. We had neither heat nor light, but we built a big fire and slept together in the same bed to keep warm. In the mornings, the shower was still hot, but getting dressed and letting our hair air dry was not.

In the mornings, we got out of the house as quickly as we could to seek warm food in warm places. In the evenings, we came home as late as possible to shorten the amount of time we would have to be awake in the freezing darkness. All three of us got colds.

The last two nights of the power outage, we stayed at a local hotel. It sounded a lot better than two more nights in what felt like a tomb.

Ever stayed in a hotel room with a four-year old? We had heat, light, and takeout, but we had very little relaxation and even less sleep. The TV blared Disney Junior until bedtime, then all three of us had to go to sleep at the same time. Except a four-year old who falls asleep at 9 p.m. at home does not fall asleep until long after that in a hotel room. Meanwhile, parents who would like nothing more than to fall asleep at 9 p.m. in a hotel, cannot sleep as long as the four-year old has the hotel heebie-jeebies.

When I was a kid, home was so boring. I could think of nothing more exciting than eating restaurant food four days in a row and staying in a hotel. Perhaps some of that carried over into adulthood, because I can get bored and cranky with “normal” and “routine.”

Until “normal” and “routine” are interrupted.

Perhaps the “act of God” was not the windstorm.

Perhaps it was a reminder to 680,000 of us that our most boring days are really our most blessed days.