I am telling you this story only because I didn’t kill my family in a freak arctic winter accident.  You will understand what I mean in a minute.

I am a prompt person.  I pay my bills on time.  I’m always early for doctor appointments.  I cook chicken at the correct temperature for the correct time.  I’m pretty by the book.

Which means that when Fall Back Day comes around, all the clocks in my general vicinity are dutifully rewound an hour and life continues as normal in my happy little bubble.

My husband, on the other hand, isn’t quite such a freak of nature when it comes to being anal about the time.  In fact, he might be on the complete other end of the spectrum, as he still has yet to set the guest room clock back.  This is the very same room that he spends most nights sleeping (because someone has to get some sleep in this house, I guess…)  His clock in his man cave in the basement is set on some completely random time, possibly due to all the Fall Back days of the past decade being compounded together or something.  Who knows.  But the point remains – my husband is apparently on permanent vacation mode and has no use for this petty thing us common people call time.

So cue a few nights ago at 1:30 in the morning.  I just started a diaper change, which resulted in my discovering the contents of said diaper did not stay in said diaper.  So also cue a pajama change.  And then cue a feeding.  It’s now 2 in the morning and I’m slowly walking down the hall after putting Fox back in bed and discover that the thermostat time is an hour off.

And at 2 in the morning there is absolutely no possible way that I can let this be the case.  Que terrible!

So I start messing with the thermostat in the dimly lit hallway.  And after about 5 minutes of fumbling, the clock is now accurate and all is right in my world.  I permit myself to go to sleep and know the little OCD elf inside of me is pacified for the night.

Now cue to 6 o’clock in the morning.

I wake up to Fox crying, which is par for the course around here, and crawl out of bed to get him.  I realize I’m freezing cold, but decide it’s a result of only being in a tank top in the middle of November.  I walk into Fox’s room and realize it’s even colder in there.  My poor little fellow had chilly little fingers and cheeks and felt like a little Fox-sicle.

I scooped him up to bring him back to our bedroom and peered over at the sound monitor which shows the temperature.  His room was 60 degrees.  Holy! Shit!  Bad parenting alarms are going off all over the place.

I run to the thermostat which reads 64 degrees in the house.

My initial thought is that the furnace died.  It wouldn’t be completely unreasonable, as each time the furnace starts up it normally sounds like an old car engine on its last leg.

I start yelling to Tony (very much in the same fashion as I did when the bathroom was leaking water into our basement and I thought the house was on fire).  I don’t hear a peep so I’m forced to be an independent woman and figure this shit out, damnit!

That’s when I realize that the thermostat is SET at 64 degrees.  What the what?

And then THAT’S when I realize that sleep-deprived Katie from 2 o’clock in the morning was that fool who accidentally set the furnace to 64 when she was fumbling around with the clock.  Damn that stupid, 2 o’clock Katie.

So all turned out well in the end.  Fox was wrapped in a fleece blanket, then buried underneath mounds of comforters while we nursed that morning.  I threw on a sweatshirt.  Tony kept sleeping and being the top-notch concerned husband and homeowner that he’s proven to be time and again.

The next night Fox went to bed with an extra layer on.  Just in case mom got more brilliant ideas at 2 o’clock in the morning.

 

 

 

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