My husband is a weather fanatic. Partly because his job is weather-dependent and partly, I think, because he just likes the weather. All conversation stops each evening when the weather report comes on the nightly news. Sometimes, he even uses the DVR to rewind and play back the weather forecast a second time. You know, in case he missed a detail. My husband is Facebook friends with Tom Skilling, and he has (on more than one occasion) read aloud Tom Skilling’s status updates in admiration. He always lingers near the home weather stations during a visit to a home improvement store. And I have learned to never, ever ask my husband a simple question such as, “Is it supposed to be cold tomorrow?” He just loves the weather.
I had a momentary lapse in judgment Saturday night when I suggested we should close the sun room windows before bed. “Why?” my husband asked in a rather accusing tone. “It’s not supposed to rain.”
“Oh, well, my weather app says 30% chance of rain….” I started.
“That thing is a piece of junk. You shouldn’t use that generic app that comes with the phone. That isn’t accurate. See, mine? This app is from blah-blah-blah and it shows blah-blah-blah….” he lectured.
“Ok, leave the windows open then. I just don’t want to be up at 3:00 in the morning shutting windows.”
So, when the rain came at 1:15 that morning, I jumped out of bed. A downpour. I quickly closed our bedroom windows and stumbled in the dark through the house to the sunroom. I turned the cranks on window after window after window. The rain splattered through the screens, droplets landing on my face in the dark. I heard my husband step into the sunroom to help. “Are the girls’ windows open too?” I asked him.
“A crack,” he answered. I headed up the stairs to their bedrooms.
A few minutes later, I crept back into our darkened bedroom. As I lifted up the covers to snuggle beneath them again, I heard a hushed voice. “Sorry about that, babe.”
I smiled. I love a whispered apology in the middle of the night. I love him.