Update

I knew better. I knew I shouldn't get sucked in. I knew every construction project takes longer than expected. But still, when our builder looked at me more than once and said with total confidence, "Oh we'll be finished by the end of January, no problem," I fell for it. I dreamt about it. I shared the date. I mentally counted down the days until Feb1st. 

With the long-awaited deadline fast approaching, Jesse and I went shopping this week for house stuff. We wanted to buy anything we'd actually need for living.  We had to be ready, we thought. 

In one quick trip, we bought our couch and ottoman, our living room rug, Eliot's bedding and rug, all Emerson's bedroom furniture. It was a bittersweet day. We were excited to pick out our new stuff, but sad knowing we couldn't use it right away. Spending the day picturing our home was painful actually. Finding and sitting on our old couch brought me to tears as I pictured Moe lounging on his favorite spot. 

When we got home, Jesse and I took turns saying, "I want to be home." Something about that trip made us really miss home and feel a need to be there.

So today, I text our builders...just curious...when would you guess is our move-in date? Then I waited anxiously for his response. 

I should've known better. I did know better. Still, when I got the following response, my heart broke: 

"Trim is being delivered Wednesday and starting Thursday with trim. I would say end of February middle of March."

Wow. 

Smiling

I keep getting complimented on my ability to stay positive through all of this.
Last month, the students gave me the Silver Shield Award.  The student who nominated me announced to the entire student body that  I had suffered a terrible tragedy this year, but that you would never know it because I come to school in a great mood every day.  Last night - on Christmas night - my facebook status simply said Life is awesome, and I got an incredibly kind post from a cousin explaining it was awesome because I choose to look at that positive.
I'm going to admit a few things about all of this...
1 - I know this is one of my greatest strengths.  I am a happy person.  I am optimistic and energetic 99.9% of the time.  I know that people value that, especially the older I get.
2 - I never go more than five minutes without thinking about the fire and our loss and, honestly, feeling insanely sad about it. I am on the brink of tears more often than people realize. I am so deeply sad - sadder than I have ever in my life felt - and it doesn't seem to get any easier with time. 

Some thoughts...

It's been awhile since I've written and so many times, I find myself thinking, "I need to write a post about that..."
So, here is my post about all of "that" - in no particular order.

Today, after someone asked me about the changes we've made to our home, she said, "You know, in a way, this could end up being a blessing."  I'd just like to add that to the list of things you should never say to someone who has lost her home to a fire.  Have we made positive changes?  Yes.  Are we saving ourselves years of home improvement projects?  Yes.  But that fire was and never will be a "blessing."  Trust me when I say those home projects could wait.

Similar to that, people have made several comments about how at least it's nice that I get to go shopping or that I have new stuff.  But people aren't really thinking it through when they make those comments. Everyone loves new clothes and new shoes.  But everyone also has that one pair of jogging pants she's had for years because its just so comfortable...  that one pair of boots that are the perfect blend of stylish and comfortable, which took many neglected pairs of boots and many different shoe stores to find... that "go to" black dress for nights when you want to look nice... that scarf, that sweater, that necklace that has some kind of emotional connection to it that makes you cling to it even years after you've stopped wearing it.  And then there are the things we don't think about...  When I went to replenish my closet in August, I didn't think about buying gloves.  I went a few weeks in December desperate for gloves until I got the opportunity to buy some.  Similarly, I forgot about rain books until I practically ruined a pair of pants walking through a rain storm.  Bras are impossible to buy online and yet I have no time to get to a mall, so I'm struggling in that department.  There's just so much.  When people seem jealous of my "new clothes," I wish they'd really stop and think about losing everything in their closet in exchange for a few new items.

On a more positive note, last week, we got walls!!  The dry wall finally went up.  That's been my dream since this happened - I wanted it to look like a home again.  It's finally starting to. The day that I went to see the drywall, I walked upstairs and stood in Emerson's old nursery and suddenly I was crying.  Tears were rolling down my cheeks and I couldn't figure out why.  I still can't really articulate it, but it was a blend of both good and bad emotions.  The walls made it look more like home, which brought back to reality what we lost.  It also made the changes come to life, which was fun but also made me miss the way it was.  They were also happy tears because it meant we were that much closer to being home.  It was an emotional moment for me, indeed.

I keep getting emotional about Moe.  I think it's the holidays.  Moe loved sitting under the Christmas tree.  It looks really empty without him.

This Friday, Jesse and I are going shopping to try to catch after Christmas sales on our home products.  That should be exciting!!

I'm falling asleep at the laptop - (life is pretty crazy right now around Christmas!) - so I better go.  Until next time... which will hopefully be sooner...

Sounds in my head

Snap. Crackle. Pop. 

The sounds of children's cereal

And fire. 

Snapping my life in two halves,

Crawling and creeping and

crackling it's way up the stairs

To Her room

To Lick at Her crib, and Crouch behind

The door to peek a boo

Into my life in the most random times

Even at the breakfast table

Over cereal. 

Nov 21

I don't want to live here anymore. 

I want to be home. 

It's Been Awhile

The guy from our restoration company recently said he thought we'd be back in our house by the end of January. He said it it with so much confidence too. Like, eh, no big deal. That is such a big deal. I'd convinced myself to just accept the fact that I'd be spending this school year in Aunt Ackie's house. January! That feels so close. I never thought I'd want Christmas to rush by, but I do now. 

This past week, we went to the outlets in Edinburgh for some serious replacement shopping. It was an adventure shopping with Emerson and Eliot, but we managed to spend quite a bit of money. 

Sometimes I feel guilty for all the new things we're getting. Like someone is going to see us and think, well, they didn't need our money or sympathy! It would be hard to understand...to remember...yeah we have lots of nice, new stuff...but at what a cost!

They're making lots of changes to our house. I guess WE are but between the interior designer, cabinet maker, architect and builders all spitting out ideas in their jargon (and none of whom had even seen our house pre-fire), it's a bit overwhelming. I find myself nodding in agreement without fully understanding it all. I'm nervous. I'm scared we are ruining our home. 

I miss.

I miss my home. 

I miss that Jesse and I both had two pillows and one of mine had to be a small, feather one to scrunch up under my head at night. 

I miss my daughter being a safe distance away from the TV from her bedroom so I don't have to have the TV practically on mute until she falls asleep. 

I miss the upstairs. I have not seen it since the fire. That's where my daughter's room was, the room we gave the most attention to when planning furniture and paint color. I miss the wall decal I was so excited to find and spent quite a while perfectly on the wall. 

I miss our new laundry room and the laundry baskets I had lined up against the wall, each serving a certain color. I miss knowing what food was in my kitchen and where to find it. I miss the handwritten recipe of Mom's spaghetti I so proudly copied down and tried to imitate. 

I miss my home. 

And man I miss my cat. 

Just wanna say...

I miss living in my house. 

That is all. 

We Aren't Invincible

We're all guilty of it.

We ignore warning labels.
We drive short distances without our seatbelts.
We take the batteries out of our smoke alarms because it just won't stop beeping in the middle of the night.

We shake our heads at a car full of teenagers driving too fast and say, "They think they're invincible."

But don't we all?  Until tragedy strikes us, we all walk around feeling a little bit invincible.

I did too.  I still remember the sympathy I felt for the family of students who lost their home to a fire last year.  I rushed home during my planning to gather up some stuff to donate to them.  I felt sad for them when they passed me down the hall.  But I never thought it could happen to me. 

Well, it did.  And, I hate to say it, but it could to you too.  In case it does, please stop what you're doing right now and learn from my tragedy by doing the following:

Make sure you have adequate insurance.  When Jesse and I first bought our home, we hadn't sold our first house.  We felt pretty strapped for cash, so we bought the minimum coverage.  As soon as our first home sold, our insurance agent, Macky Hagan, advised us to up our insurance, promising us the current plan would not even touch what it would cost to replace our home.  He was right.  Thankfully, we listened.  If we hadn't, we would not be able to move back into our home. We would currently be homeless...with a hefty mortgage. 

Photograph/video your belongings.  I'd actually never heard this piece of advice - until after the fire. But as I sat on my front porch trying to remember every single article of clothing, every single toy that we lost from my toddler's room, I sure I wish I had.  It is a daunting task to try to remember the brand name, the age, and the quantity of every item in each room of your home. Photographic evidence, kept in a safety deposit box, is a great idea. 

Check your wiring (especially if you live in an older home).  Evidently we had four generations of wires in our basement.   One of them was obviously faulty.  This fire was going to happen to us.  It was just a matter of time.  We are incredibly blessed that time happened in the middle of the day when no one was home.

Have an escape plan if you have a second floor.  This is the warning I ignored, and the one that now gives me nightmares.  I'll never forget someone scolding me when I told her that Emerson's nursery would be upstairs while our bedroom was downstairs.  She exclaimed, "You can't let her sleep alone upstairs until she knows how to climb out of a window!".  I ignored the advice, thinking she was being dramatic.  She wasn't.  Our fire went straight up our steps.  It charred the steps and the wall of Emerson's nursery.  If we had been home, I would not have been able to get to her, and we had no way for her to get out.  My daughter would have been stuck upstairs alone.  That is the thought that haunts me to this day - it was difficult to type - but it is important for people to hear.  We won't move back into our home until there is a landing off the second floor.  I hope you at least will buy ladders.

Make sure you have smoke alarms - even in your basement.  The only way we would have been able to get our daughter from the upstairs is if we'd had the time to do so - and the only way that could've been possible was through smoke alarms in the place where it all began, in our basement.  You can't have enough of them.

Scan your pictures and save them somewhere besides your own computer.  Since our fire was electric, we were told that anything plugged into the wall would be a loss.  Thankfully, that turned out to be incorrect as Jesse's hard drive was repairable.  But we lost numerous photo albums, scrapbooks, and picture frames in that fire.  Scanning them onto our computer almost wasn't enough.  Burn your pictures onto a CD and put that CD in a safe.

Buy a safe!  Or a firesafe box.  Or a safety deposit box.  Have a spot where you can keep small family heirlooms, important papers, etc. 

We aren't invincible. Tragedies happen. The only thing we can do is be prepared for when they do. 

I don't want to forget...

Emerson refuses to call Aunt Ackie's house "home."  If we are at Mom's, and I say, "Are you ready to go home?" her immediate response is, "Not home. Auntie Ackie's house."  This is without fail every time. 

When we drive by the house, Emerson has to wave at the house (well, we all do...she has even started fussing at Eliot for not waving) and say, "Get better soon house! We miss you! We love you!"  

When Emerson first looked in the front door, her reaction was, "There's no toys in there." 

It took almost a month for Emerson to mention Moe. Even after talking about cats and pets, she never said a word. Today, though, she was talking to Uncle Michael about Molly and she said, "I have a cat. His name is Moe. He's at our house."  It makes me both sad and relieved to know she hasn't forgotten about him completely. 

Off Color Jokes

I get that we have to laugh about this.  As they say, if you aren't laughing, you're crying. 
But some people have chosen really bad jokes that frankly are not funny.

One day while I was sitting outside trying to mentally inventory every belonging from Emerson's nursery that we lost, someone stopped by and walked up to the porch.  The first thing he said was, "mmm, I've always loved the small of a good campfire."

Yeah, hilarious.

The first day the Rumpke dumpster sat in front of our home, overflowing with our furniture and pieces of our walls, someone smiled and said, "Mind if I throw some stuff in your all's dumpster?"

heehee

Recently, when Jesse attended an event in someone's home, he asked if he could go through a certain door.  "You can do whatever you want," he was told, "as long as you don't burn down the house."

Ummm.

A week after the fire, I ran into an old high school friend and he said, "Hi Smoky!"

Riiight.

People, you aren't funny.  So stop trying to be.
If Jesse and I want to make jokes in order to make light of our situation, feel free to laugh.
Otherwise, just stop.

Me

I am not taking this well. 

Besides the obvious (this situation sucks), for some reason, I can't seem to move on.
Even worse, I am, at the core, very sad, whereas normally I am annoyingly happy.  Sure, I get distracted and I laugh and I'm usually smiling - but deep down, there is a constant sadness.
I've even noticed that I'm having a hard time connecting to people with whom I've grown close.  There's an awkward divide that I can't seem to cross.

Jesse and I have discussed at length why I could be struggling moreso than him.

Of course, there's the simple fact that I'm more sentimental, more emotionally, more, well, female than him.  But it seems to be more than that.  I seem to be mourning the loss of our things worse than Jesse.  I think this is why...

For one, this fire happened on our third day of school.  I had just spent FOUR MONTHS off of work, at our home.  That is a lot of time to be in your home.  Half of those were spent with both of my children home with me all day.  This means that I had lots of time making memories in our home right before I lost it.  Lots of time to get connected to certain rooms, toys, and routines.

It also is the reason I've had nightmares about what I would've done had I'd been home, where Jesse recently hasn't had to think about that much.

Another reason I'm struggling so much is Moe.  While Jesse loved Moe, he did not have the relationship with him that I did.  Moe and I were together long before I even met Jesse.

I also think a reason is my lifelong fear of fire.  This has not helped that fear - it has intensified it.  The other night, while eating supper at my aunt's house with my family and my sister, the smoke alarm started blaring.  Both Mik and Jesse commented on the look of panic in my eyes.  I felt like I was about to have a panic attack.  It was nothing - some smoke from the oven that we quickly dispersed - but I honestly thought for a second that we were jinxed.

Yet another reason is that I'm simply not excited about renovating.  I have never wanted to build a home because I knew I didn't want to face all of those decisions.  I find it all stressful and overwhelming.  So, while Jesse has been able to lose himself in searching for ideas on light fixtures and paint colors, I can't quit thinking about how the house used to be.

I'm not sure what it's going to take for me to move on from this.  My mom and Jesse has mentioned therapy.  I don't know that it's necessary, though.  The sadness hasn't kept me from living my life.  I'm hoping that I eventually will just get over it.

You JUST did!

Finally, someone said it.  Every time we talk to someone about the fire, they love to point out all the remodeling we get to do.  They get all excited about the fact that now we get to make the house the way we want it.
But finally, the other day, our cousin, Christina, said what I've been thinking all along: "You JUST did it!"

EXACTLY.

It was just three years ago we bought that house.  It was just three years ago that Jesse and I spent an entire summer standing in that house scraping layer after layer of wallpaper and replacing it with paint.  We went to Home-A-Rama to get ideas on the house and came home excited about paint colors and decorating ideas.  We became best friends with the cashier at the paint shop in town as we borrowed paint samples, chose paint colors, and redid paint colors.  Saturday night dates were spent at Lowe's picking out chandeliers, blinds, and ceiling fans.  The search for silver curtains to hang in our dining room became the search for the Holy Grail until we finally found the perfect set.  Finding the right shade of green for the kitchen was a task we never did quite get - after painting it three times, we gave up.  The couch-hunt was a fun one, although handing the ecstatic Macy's worker our credit card hurt a little.  Little did we know we'd regret that couch decision, since microfiber isn't the greatest for baby spit up and poo.  Finally pulling the blankets from our windows when we finally found the right shades for our kitchen was exciting, even though Mom was convinced you could see us through them when you drove down Spalding Ave.  Front porch swing.  Rugs.  Prints.  So many decisions to make that house our home.  We JUST did it.

And it isn't even that.

It was just four years ago that we got married - which means it was just four years ago we stood in Macy's and Bed, Bath & Beyond with little scan guns choosing every little detail we'd want to fill our home.  Dishes - are the bowls big enough? Too big?  Do we want square plates or round plates?  Solid or patterned? 
Do we need an ice cream scooper?  A pizza cutter?  A hot dog slicer?
How many spatulas, cutting boards, mixing spoons, etc do we really need?
What color bedding will fit that perfect shade of paint we have in our bedroom?  Is it too manly or too feminine?
How many picture frames will we need?  What size? What shape?  
Will that garbage can fit in our kitchen? 

You get the point.

And don't even get me started on the fact that it was also just three years ago I did the same for baby stuff.

Seriously.  We JUST did this.

I'm just gonna say it...

I could've lost my daughter on August 9th.
I could've lost my daugher in a very horrific, nightmarish way. 

I know that I didn't.  I know she is safe.  But the "what could have been" scenario keeps haunting me.  Every time I walk into our house, I look at the charred steps - now uncrossable - and the charred wall of Emerson's nursery.  I picture her running up those steps completely on her own, as she did numerous times every day.  I think about the days we spent at home when I would be nursing or rocking Eliot, so she would run off somewhere to play by herself.  I think about the fact that just one week earlier, my family and I very well could've been -- probably would have been -- home when our house went up in flames. 

And Emerson could've been -- probably would have been -- trapped upstairs alone. 

What would I have done?  The scenario changes every time I think about it.  I imagine running outside with Eliot, stopping cars on Spalding Ave and handing my child off to the first stranger I found so that I could literally scale the bricks of my home to get to Emerson.  I imagine grabbing a blanket and just running through the flames to get to her.  I imagine standing outside screaming like a madwoman and yet paralyzed in fear.

What would she have done?  The alarms and the flames and the smoke would have scared her.  Would she have hidden?  Would she have tried to run down the steps, into the fire?  Could she have heard me if I'd tried to yell directions to her?

My heart is pounding just typing this.  It is difficult to breathe.
But I have to "say" it.  I have to get this out.  This is what plays through my mind all day.

Seriously.  I could have lost her.

If I had lived, and she had not.......

If I had had to sit in my front yard, knowing my daughter was trapped inside....

Oh my gosh.

It is unfathomable. 

Last night, I had nightmares all night.  In all of them, for different reasons, I was desperately trying to get to Emerson and couldn't. 
Last night, as I played with Emerson's hair while she peacefully fell asleep, I had tears streaming down my cheeks, thinking about how different my life could've been.

My life?  She IS my life. 

When we rebuild our home, there WILL be an escape route from - and easily accessible entrance way to -- the upstairs.  I don't care if it costs us more money to build that than it does to replace every thing we lost. 

I have to stop thinking about this.  I know that.  But, for now, I can't.

Happy Day

Today was a happy day :)
Last night, I told Jesse I wanted us to spend all day as a family, "home" (not home! Auntie Ackie's house! -as Emerson is always quick to correct us).  Turns out, I had no idea how much that was needed.

This morning, Jesse cooked us chocolate chip pancakes and eggs, something that makes us feel "homey" because it used to be his every weekend routine.  Then, he and Emerson played while I did some laundry and graded papers.  I decided to take a break after awhile to play "Swiper" with the two of them.  The three of us ended up in the "big bed" in Emerson's room and she alternated hugging us both.  Finally, she said, "Come here, kids," and wrapped her arms around us.  She continued, "You're my best friends."  The happiness was palpable.
So much so, that I guess it woke up Eliot from the other room because he started crying to join us.  I brought him into the bedroom and the four of played together.  Eliot's face lights up when he sees Emerson - it is a beautiful thing to see.  He follows her around the room and smiles the entire time.
After Emerson's nap, we took our little family to Danville for some Orange Leaf, then we went to the park.  While I nursed Eliot in the car, Jesse and Emerson found their way to a bridge overlooking some ducks.  What a peaceful sight to walk up on.  Jesse and I switched kids, and I spent time racing Emerson down side-by-side slides.  Finally, we left, went through Long John's and ate fish on the way home.

I'm giving the details of today because I don't want to forget them.  It was a great day.  A simple day.  Exactly what we needed.

Stages of Loss and Grief

Stage One:  Denial and Isolation
I bypassed this stage.  It's pretty hard to go through denial when you spend hours watching smoke pour out of your windows.  There was no denying that fire.

Stage Two:  Anger
This is my current stage.  To be frank, I'm pissed off.  I'm mad this happened to us.  I'm mad that my daughter has lost all of her favorite toys... her Mickey cup... her books... I'm mad that I can't cook breakfast for my family without feeling lost.  I'm just mad, and I'm lashing out.

Stage Three:  Bargaining
I wouldn't say that I'm thinking, "If only we'd..." because, thankfully, the fire was of no fault of our own.  However, I am constantly imagining what could have happened "if only we'd" been home when the fire erupted.  Terror.  Pain.  It makes my heart hurt thinking about it. 

Stage Four:  Depression
This stage creeps in and out.  My heart feels heavier than it ever has.  My mind constantly races with thoughts about our home and our situation - whereas, before, I just lived in a blissful state, even mentally.  I still cry sporadically.  I still need to be alone sometimes.  But there's also...

Stage Five:  Acceptance
Yesterday, as I lay my head down on the pillow, I actually thought to myself: Today was the first day I have thought about the fire and not felt sad.  Earlier in the day, Jesse and I had to go through what was left in our house to see what we may want to keep for sentimental reasons.  This, I thought, would be a daunting task.  Turns out, though, we didn't have much to sort through.  Thankfully, and hopefully, the restoration company took almost everything to try to restore.  Even what we did have, I was able to look through with a sort of practicality.  One thing I've learned from all of this is to not put so much value in material things - even the sentimental things - so it was a lot easier to let things go yesterday.  I do think, at times, I'm starting to accept it.

I miss my clothes.

I miss my clothes.  I miss being able to choose what pair of jeans I wanted to wear on Jean Day at school.  And I miss the plethora of school t-shirts I'd collected from which I usually chose on Fridays.

I miss the new pair of pink shoes I just bought a few weeks ago and felt so proud to wear because they were actually kind of trendy.  I also miss the new L.L. Bean flip-flops I just bought because I finally decided to splurge on comfortable flip flops.

I miss my Bellarmine Alumni t-shirt, especially after just receiving an email from my principal saying that next Friday is College Colors day, and I know I used to always proudly sport my Bellarmine gear. 

I miss my bathing suit - the one I just bought this summer that somehow flattered my I've-had-two-babies-and-am-nursing figure.  I don't really want to go to the pool anymore because the only suit I own is the one 2 piece they had left in my size at Wal-Mart that I bought so I could take Emerson swimming in the hotel pool. 

I miss my cropped jogging pants because they were so absolutely perfect to wear when I wanted to change from my dress clothes after school on a hot, summer day.  Now I just keep my work clothes on (and pray that Eliot doesn't spit up all over them so that I can wear them again one day this week).

I miss my bathrobe.  I keep forgetting to buy one, so when I get out of the shower, every day I debate whether I should struggle to keep my towel on while drying my hair or if I should put my pajamas back on and get them soaked.

I miss my pajamas.  Two different people gave us pajamas, and I love both sets, but every time I put them on, I'm reminded that I no longer own some of those worn, comfortable pjs I used to love.

I've never been that into fashion.  I've never been that much of a shopper.

But man, I sure do miss my clothes.

How ya doin?

I'm starting to resent the look of pity.  Well, pity in general.  Both the look and the "How ya doin.....?" question in a tone of pity.  Every time someone sees me for the first time since the fire, that's what I get.  The worst is when they start to smile and give the standard, "How ya doin'?" but then I can actually see the look in their eyes say, "Oh wait, that's Coury, her house burned..." and the look and the question change.  It's like they feel guilty for being happy or expecting me to be happy.  I understand.  I'm pretty sure I do that too.  Or, I did.  I'm learning a lot about how to handle people during a crisis after all of this.

It is true, though... people don't expect me to be happy.  It shocks people that I returned to work so quickly and that I'm smiling when they see me.  But that puzzles me.  What do they expect?  I can't walk around crying all of the time.  I can't stay home huddled up on my couch all day.  For one, I have two children who need me to be their mama - the smiling, energetic mama they're used to.  For two, I have a job, a job that I love where principals and students and co-workers depend on me.  These things inspire me.  Am I probably sadder than I look?  Yes.  But are there many moments in the day where I'm genuinely happy and not thinking about my house?  Definitely so.

This should be exciting...

Today, we officially hired a company to reconstruct our home.  The man who owns the company spend 20 minutes showing me some of the details in our home he found most impressive.  He seemed impressed with the quality and the beauty of the woodwork and promised to do his best to replicate it.
Now we get to see our house become new again, and this time, we can fix the changes that bothered us from before.
So I should feel excited, right?

But I don't, really.

I feel overwhelmed, and I feel sad.

I never wanted to build a home, because I didn't have to have to make all of the decisions that go along with it. 
I don't want to picture my house in any way other than how it used to be.
I really don't want to think about them gutting my home.
It's simply too much.

Moe

There is sadness.  There is emptiness.
But the emotion I feel the most when it comes to Moe is guilt.

Since Emerson's birth, I did not treat Moe well.  That worsened with Eliot's birth.  It was just so difficult. If Moe ever saw me on the couch alone, he'd quickly jump up and plump down right beside me because those times were rare.  But those times -- time when I got to just sit by myself on the couch - were rare!  I didn't want another body against mine, another being demanding my attention.  So sometimes I'd push him away.  I'd ignore him.  I didn't pet him like I did just a few years ago.

Or when I'd eat breakfast, Moe, without fail, would be at my side.  Any time food was around, Moe was around.  I'd get frustrated, though, because he'd get cat hair on my dress pants.  It was my own fault.  On the weekend or in the summer, I'd welcome his little purr and laugh with Emerson as I gave him the leftover milk from my bowl.  How was he supposed to know he couldn't do that Monday-Friday? 

When we tried to find pictures of Moe after the fire, the majority of the ones we found were from my old house - the house we lived in before the kids were born.  It is depressing that I didn't have one single picture of Moe on my iPhone.

I still struggle with Moe's death.  I know the guilt is a lot of it.  The way that he died is another big reason.  I cannot imagine his last moments.  Animals are so intuitive, I am confident he knew something was wrong and he was very scared. 

I didn't ask to see Moe that day because I didn't know if it was fire or smoke inhalation that killed him, and I was too scared to ask.  Thankfully, it was smoke.

I am glad that, I was starting to think Moe knew I would take up for him when Emerson tried to throw toys at him, chase him around the house, or yell at him for no reason.  He was starting to ignore her, which is a good thing, and he would sit close to me when she was near.  I am glad that we recently bought a brush to help with his shedding, because it made me give him some attention. He'd roll around and purr the entire time I brushed him. 

I just wish I'd taken advantage of those times a little more.

I miss you, Moe.  I'm sorry I didn't give you more attention.

What I Miss...

I'm sure this will be the first in a series of posts, but I want a record of what I miss from our house...


I miss Emerson helping me do laundry.  She'd hear the buzzer go off and she'd run into the "new room" with me to help.  One day she beat me in there and when I walked in, this is what I found:  she'd put two dirty towels from the floor in the washer and she'd emptied the lint off the dryer and was walking towards the garbage can with it.  Obviously she was no amateur.

I miss looking around for Emerson only to realize she was already up the stairs.  "I go upstairs, Mommy."

I miss her playing with her tent in the big bedroom.

I miss her jumping in her crib, even though I hated when she did it.

I miss her rocking on her rocking lion and demanding that I or Jesse rock in the chair beside her.  She'd point out the shapes on her lion and point out that I didn't have shapes.  She'd say she loved her lion.

I miss seeing Emerson asleep in her crib, holding Dolly tight.

I miss watching Emerson stand in front of our TV watching Doc McStuffins, while holding on to her own Doc bag full of necessary equipment.

I miss Emerson jumping on the couch, even though I always told her "TZ DOWN!"

I miss rocking Eliot on the front porch swing by myself while Jesse took Emerson to bed.  I especially miss the times that a friend or family member would visit during that time.

I miss that moment at 8:30 when Bubble Guppies ends and Emerson says, "It's night night time!" and heads up the stairs on her own.

I miss lying on the couch with my entire family.

I miss seeing Eliot in the nap nanny, happy as can be, no matter where we stuck him.

I miss Emerson sitting at her little table in the living room while eating her breakfast and watching TV.

I miss poor Moe getting chased around the house by Emerson, always ending up under our bed for safety.

I'm over it.

There is one sentence that keeps replaying in my mind:  "I just wish it would end."
This post is kind of personal, but it is something I want to say without it be misconstrued.  So I'm just going to say it:  I can see why some people get suicidal.
I am not.  Let me repeat - I am, in no way, shape or form suicidal.  There are way too many blessings in my life for that.
What I mean by that comment is simply that I can't stop hearing myself say, I just wish it would end.  And I imagine that is the point that drives some people to suicide. 
I told Jesse the other day that we are lucky.  We are surrounded with so many blessings that we won't get that low. 
But sometimes it is hard to just get up in the morning and face the day.  I just want to go back to August 8th when life was normal and I stressed about the silly stuff that everyone else stresses over.  I just wish this nightmare would end.

Changes

Tragedies change you.  This is true.
I'm just worried this one may change me for the worst.

Since the fire, I have been more selfish and less sensitive than I ever was.
If someone tells me she had a bad day, I want to laugh at her.  Really?  Your boyfriend dumped you?  Well, I lost my house to a fire.
One of my students puts his head down in class and I snap.  You think you're tired?  You think you're overwhelmed?  Walk in my shoes!

And I know I'm far from having the "worst situation in the room" if we want to get into that.  There is no one dying.  My aunt gave us a place to live, so we aren't homeless.  No one is being abused.  I know all of that, and yet, my sympathy for others is very limited right now.

In addition, my focus and dedication to my job has changed.  I don't really care, to be blunt.  ACT scores and AP scores and daily lesson plans and walk throughs... what difference does any of it make anyway?  Why am I stressing out about stuff like that when, obviously, there are biggest stressors in the world.

I know, or at least I hope, that the changes above may just be because the fire is still new.  I'm still recovering.  Hopefully, over time, these will cease.

There are two positive changes I've seen in myself already.  One, I am dedicated to giving back now.  We have been so overwhelmed with the generosity of people - some who don't even know us - that I promise to return that favor when we are back on our feet.
Two, there are three people who mean more to me than they did even before now: my husband and my children.  The three people I've "survived" this with.  The three people who also have lost their home and their belongings. The three people staying with me in a foreign house, trying to cope and regroup (even though two may not even realize it).  My little family.

Our house is stinky: a fire from a toddler's perspective

In the two days right after our fire, my biggest concern was how to give the news to our toddler.  What should I say?  How much do I say?  Should we take her there?  I knew she'd want to know why we weren't going to our home.  I also knew I didn't want her to have a lifelong fear of fire after seeing what it could do. 
When I finally saw the house, I knew we couldn't take her there.  Her toys are thrown about the living room, covered in soot.  The steps -- at least, the ones that are left -- that lead up to her bedroom are charred and dangerous.  The kitchen ceiling has fallen in and rubble is all over the floor.  It is no place for a two year old.

At first, we just did what we could to make it a fun adventure for Emerson.  She stayed at Ma Dee's house because that was comfortable for her.  We took her to the hotel pool to swim because it was something new.  We surprised her with new clothes and new toys (which she did not know were used and donated from someone else).  It was all fun for her.

Two days after the fire, though, we were driving past the house when Emerson spotted her daddy and her grandparents standing outside in the front yard.  She screamed, "I want my house! I want my house!".  Still sensitive to her needs, I pulled into the driveway, freaking out.  I was not ready for this.
As we walked onto the porch, my husband said something for which I am still so grateful:  "We can't go in right now, honey, I don't have my keys." 
As it turns out, that was true.  I thought he was just quick on his feet to find an excuse.  My keys were sitting in my ignition, but I desperately grabbed on to this toddler-proof excuse and went with it.  Yeah, Emerson, we can't go in.  We're keyless.

So we walked around the outside.  She could not stop staring at the boarded windows.  "What's that, Mommy?"  "Those are boards.  Aren't they silly?" I responded in my best I actually think this is funny voice.  Then Jesse pulled out another gem.  "We can't go in right now becuse the house is stinky."  And together we told our, "Our house is hurting right now, but people are going to fix it!"

And those words of wisdom has become my daughter's string of comments about the house.  "Our house hurting.  It stinky.  We have silly boards."  She repeats these sentences over and over, sometimes at random times and sometimes when we're actually talking about the house.

She has started to mention various things from the home.  Yesterday she was watching Doc McStuffins and started talking about the people who were in her Doc notebook.  The other day, someone gave her a doll and said, "Here's a Dolly!" to which she replied, "That's not Dolly!" (the doll she has slept with since she turned one).  This morning, she told me she wanted to "watch Max and Ruby on Mommy's Kindle."

And she refuses to call Aunt Ackie's house "home."  If we are at my mom's and I say, "Are you ready to go home?" she quickly responds with, "We not go home.  We go Ackie's house."  It never fails.  I find this both sweet and sad.

Now, when we drive by the house, our whole family has to wave to it and say, "Hi house!  We miss you!  Get better soon!  Love you!"

We plan to take Emerson to the house when the reconstruction process begins.  I think - I hope - that part gets her excited.  I dread the day she asks about Moe and about certain toys, which I think will come once we return to our home.

But until then, we just can't go there.  We're having a "sleepover" at Ackie's, because our house is "hurting."  And that's simply enough for her.

Accepting Charity

When Jesse and I bought our house, it needed work.  Lots of it.  There were layers upon layers of wallpaper in every room on every wall and ceiling.  Until I got pregnant and school started, we scraped that wallpaper and painted the rooms ourselves.  We stood on scaffold in the  middle of July in a house with no air conditioning painting every single detail of our dining room ceiling.  We spent hours spraying and scraping, spraying and scraping.  Our family and friends all offered to help, but it was very rare Jesse and I ever asked for it. 
When it moved, it was the same.  We did as much as possible on our own.
That's just how we are.  We're both fiercely independent and a little bit private.

Until now.
Now, help from others is the boat keeping us afloat.

It is a humbling experience to have to accept help from so many people.  Usually, if someone says, "Here, take this..." I'd politely say, "No thank you."  Now I have to accept it. Whether it's a $100 bill or a bag of used baby clothes, I don't have the right or the privilege to say no.  And it is driving me crazy.  I'm not used to the pity.  And it isn't a feeling I want to get used to.

What Not to Say

Here are a few things NOT to say to someone who is watching their house go up in flames...

It's just stuff.  I realize this sounds comforting.  I realize this is the silver lining of the entire situation.  But, to me, the belongings in my home weren't just "stuff" -- and they never seemed less like "just stuff" than the moment I'm realizing I've lost it all.  Although I can buy new blue jeans and a new Kindle, when you suddenly have nothing, that "stuff" takes on a whole new value.
Not to mention, it isn't even the "stuff" that you mourn the most.  It's the memories in the home.  It isn't the actual couch that I am now mourning -- it's the fact that my entire family could fit on that couch to watch Bubble Guppies before it was Emerson's bedtime.  And it isn't the stroller that I miss, but the daily walks my family would take together on clear nights.  That "stuff" had sentimental value.

It can all be replaced.   Because let's be honest, it can't all be replaced.  My daughter's crib was in that fire.  Sure, I can buy another crib, but my mother and I spent an entire day in Louisville going from baby store to baby store trying to find the perfect crib for the perfect child I had growing in my womb.  I can remember I ended up in tears at the end of the day because it was all just so overwhelming.  We made sure the bed could transition into a toddler bed.  We pictured the bed being passed down to our second child.  It was no easy task. 
Also in that fire was my wedding gown.  Talk about a shopping struggle!  And since my wedding day, that gown has remained stored safely away in a box so that, one day, Emerson could see (and probably laugh at) the gown her mommy wore when she married Daddy.  Maybe Emerson could've even used material from it to make her own or put on her veil.
Also in that fire was a notebook that I'm still desperately waiting to find.  In that notebook were letters from me to Emerson -- letters that I began writing to her from the beginning of my pregnancy and just wrote in a few months ago.  I can never recreate those letters to her.
Not everything in a home can be "replaced," even if the fire didn't take any human lives.

Everyone is alive.  This one is tricky.  Do not say this to someone unless you know for a fact that the person did not have a pet, or if she did, the pet survived.  People kept saying this to me on Friday.  At least everyone is alive... at least no one was home... at least you all made it.  Well, guess what.  We aren't all alive, someone was home and he didn't make it...  Moe.  My cat.  The pet that I've had for 12 years - longer than I've known Jesse or owned that home - perished in that fire.  And I was mourning him.  I sat the bundle on the porch where the firefighters had wrapped him in blankets.  I saw Dr. Cook come to take his body away.  I was hurting.  And it hurt even worse when I felt (in the moment) that people were minimalizing his death.

At least now you can build your house how you want it!  Sure, there were quirks to my home that drove me crazy.  We had a toilet room - a room where there was literally nothing but a toilet.  Our bathtub and our shower were separated.  Basically, our bathroom was crowded and didn't make much sense.  And yes, we will now fix it.  But for the first few days after the fire, in my mind, our home was perfect.  I didn't want to change it.  After all, we'd only lived in it for three years.  We hadn't had time to get tired of it yet.  We loved it how it was, that was why we bought it!  If I'd wanted a newer home, I would've bought a newer home.  If I'd wanted to build a house from scratch, I would've built a house.

Let me clarify -- I know that people mean well.  I do.  And I know that finding the right words in a time like this seems impossible.  I'm not judging the people who said any of the above (hell I can't remember who has said what at this point anyway), but it still hurt to hear.

So what can you say?  I'm sorry.  I'm praying for you.  I'm here for you.  How about a hug?