Under same roof again, briefly

"Just come on over," he told me. "You're family."

I couldn't really argue. I had no power, no hot water, no phone. And it was true; we had been married for almost 10 years. Had a kid together. So I packed up some clothes and moved in with my ex-husband. My "wasband," I like to call him. "Ex" always conjures up images of something cut with a dull knife, or a virulent strain of food poisoning.

But we're not like that. We laid down arms years ago, joined forces to raise a decent person, and sought peace.

Whether we could live together again, I guess we were going to find out.

All weekend, I heard stories about how people made it through the wake of the windstorm. Fireplaces, generators, friends with powered houses. One friend's mother moved in with her. Monday morning at the office for her was like a poolside lounge chair in Boca.

Me, I became one of my son's sleepover buddies, set up on a blow-up mattress under his loft bed.

His face peeked down at me in the morning as blankets and pillows sailed down onto my head.

As for his father, well, there were moments. It has been years since we shared the same space.

The first place we clashed was the kitchen. We've all done the little "Sorry" dance around the sink and the coffeemaker.

Then I asked for a cookie sheet to make some refrigerated biscuits I had brought over just to be nice. I'd been serving them to our son for years.

"They don't decompose," the wasband said, with a slight wrinkle of the nose. Remember those French fries in "Super-size Me," he asked. They looked the same after weeks. Same with those biscuits.

Then why would they need to be refrigerated, I asked. Why have an expiration date? And hey, just for the record, they were fine when I made them when we were married. ...

My son ignored us and ate two. Just for the record.

We had the same bob-and-weave in the bathroom, where the wasband trimmed his goatee, and I put in my contacts.

But with the awkward moments came the Old Days.

Few people can nod along while you talk with a toothbrush in your mouth.

Should he trim his mustache as short as his beard? (No.)

Do I look like I'm turning into a man? (No.)

He didn't blink when I walked around half-dressed, waiting for my flannel sleep-pants to dry.

I didn't pick up his phone, didn't go into his room or glance at the mail. He has his own life now, and I mine.

But we are still a family.

And we still were when my power came on Monday night after dinner.

My son and I had gone down to my house to check on things, and found the place lit and warming up.

I cheered, my son cheered, and the wasband cheered when we called to tell him the news. Then I went back to his house, gathered my clothes, and hugged him thankfully.

But I left the biscuits. Something to remember me by in the years to come.

Nicole Brodeur's column appears Wednesday and Sunday. Reach her at 206-464-2334 or nbrodeur@seattletimes.com.

All that, and Yukon Cornelius.