It is getting really cold at night. Frankly, I hate it. The baby gets a room heater set to 68 deg. The rest of the house is totally frigid. I don’t like wearing socks, so after my shower, I pad around barefoot until I hop into bed. By then, my feet are usually waxy cold.
Along with our extra ironing board, we have two extra microwaves. Every winter, one of those microwaves gets transplanted into our bedroom. I use it to warm up a heat pad…filled with rice or barley, something like that. The heat pad goes down at my toes and helps me sleep.
Zach never seems to like the heat pad. However, in years past, I have caught him sticking his feet on it too. Not this year.
“Can you warm up my heat pad for me?”
“Please? I’m freezing. I can’t sleep unless my feet are warm.”
“I’m anti-heat pad.”
“You used to stick your feet on it.”
“Not this year.”
“Why don’t you like it?”
“I guess that really I’m anti-microwave.”
“It’s totally fine.”
“Is it going to give me ball cancer?”
“It’s only on for like 2 minutes.”
“I don’t want ball cancer.”
“You’ll be fine. If I had slippers, my feet wouldn’t get so cold and then I wouldn’t need a heat pad.”
“Are you saying that you want slippers for Christmas?”
“I’m just saying.”
At this point, I grumpily roll out of bed, take 3 steps over to the microwave, plug it in, and warm up my heat pad. I also thank my lucky stars that it’s right there and I don’t have to further freeze my gazoobies off by walking all the way downstairs on the chilly tile.
We have some version of this conversation at least once a week.
I don’t care what he thinks. I sure do like heating things up in the bedroom.