I asked MIM (The Man I Married) for just one present this Christmas: to hook up the refrigerator’s ice maker, which has been dry for five years now. I often lay awake at night listening to the ice maker struggling to make ice out of air, thinking it must resemble the sound of my uterus all those years, unsuccessfully trying to churn out babies. Willing itself to create something out of nothing, the ice maker whirs, clunks, and heaves, but nothing pops out.
MIM grumbled but consented. He spent the day drilling holes through the cupboards to run water from the sink to the fridge on the other side of the kitchen, taking multiple trips to the hardware store. He rearranged the cupboard contents as he threaded the new water hose through the cabinets. The waffle maker is now mixed in with the teacups, sawdust sprinkles the popover pan, and I found a shower cap stuffed in with the Ziploc bags. His reasoning: it’s plastic, so that’s where it belongs.
Still, after a hard day’s work, the ice maker refused to work. MIM could not diagnose the problem and gave up.
But when he returned home from work the next day, I greeted him with news: “I think I fixed the ice maker.”
“How?” he asked.
“I turned the freezer back on.”