So, it’s been more than 6 months since the house burned down. Several people have asked how we’re doing now, so I thought an update post would be the easiest way to answer. The shock wore off long ago and the depression that I convinced myself wasn’t depression, is gone. Now, it’s just the Aftermath.
First and foremost is the housing situation. We are so blessed to have a home to live in but it’s not where we want to be. It’s out of our kids’ school district, it’s too far from church, and it’s in a town that smells like cabbage farts. (There’s a paper mill here.) We’re working on getting back to our normal smelling town.
Second, is the kids. Now, to look at them, you wouldn’t suspect anything is wrong. And I didn’t, until I asked my 12-year-old a question in a moment of frustration because he was taking too long to get in the car.
Me: Why do you have to carry so much stuff with you all the time? We’re just going to the store.
Him: Do you remember what happened in June?
Me: Dead silence.
What could I say? The poor kid is toting all the stuff that’s most important to him around everywhere he goes. I wonder how long he’ll do this. How long until he feels comfortable leaving it behind. I look forward to the day he stops worrying.
After that, I noticed my Autistic son is stimming more. His talks nonstop and his fingers are never still. He knows how many days ago, exactly, that the house burned down and I’ve noticed he classifies events as “before” and “after the house burned down.” He’s autistic. He needs normalcy, routine. Of course he’s stressed. How awful of me not to notice.
The other three are taking it better. My daughter, once she got her guitar and an MP3 player to replace her one-week-old birthday presents, shows no signs of stress. Number 4, who could only remark on the condition of the relatively undamaged porch when the rest of the house was burning to the ground, talks about the fire like he saw it in a movie or something. Number 5 is two, so she doesn’t care.
Hey, 3 well-adjusted, if not materialistic and/or clueless, children out of 5 ain’t bad, right?
Then, there’s the husband. He’s found refuge in golf. Playing golf, watching the Golf channel, talking about golf. I wouldn’t be surprised if he dreams about golf. Golf, golf, golf, ad nauseam. I mean, it has to be stress about the house, right? Otherwise, he likes the most boring “sport” in all the world and that is unfathomable. (Sorry, honey, but I like to take digs at you on the blog where you can’t do anything about it. Love you. *wink*)
Then there’s me. You know that expression, “Eating your feelings”? Well, let’s just say that I’ve eaten the feelings of every person whose ever had anything bad happen to them since the beginning of time in the last 6 months. That translates to a whopping 15 lbs. of extra weight on my already overburdened frame. It’s ridiculous.
Oh well. Problem acknowledged, so now I’m doing something about it. No, I’m not sharing what I’m doing or posting fat “before” pictures and asking you to hold me accountable. I still have my dignity (what’s left of it after writing the term, “cabbage farts,” anyway.) Okay, maybe just one picture.
Point is, we’ve all dealt with the house fire incident in our own ways. None of them terribly bad. I don’t think any of us are scarred for life.
Unless the husband does start wearing those ridiculous golf pants.