The Fire

I live in an English Tudor that was built in 1929. It has charm. It also has old house issues. Among them is the steam heat---it is uneven. Some rooms are cozy and warm and others are a bit nippy. My bedroom is one of the nippier ones. So about 13 years ago we installed a pellet stove in my bedroom. Wood pellets are automatically fed into freestanding fireplace. The resultant fire provides clean wood burning heat and ambiance.

On a Saturday morning around 7 am ten years ago my husband woke up and said Get out of bed and get the kids too—the stove is on fire. And I looked over at the stove and I could see small flames shooting out—it was not an Oh my God the house is burning down!! type fire—but it was indeed a fire. We needed to call the fire department. And while my husband used the fire extinguisher to snuff out most of the flames and dialed 911, I ran to get the kids out of bed. I was the safety officer.

Now I didn’t want to seem hysterical to the kids so I first made a general announcement in a calm tone—Girls-- everybody up. There is a small fire in my bedroom, go downstairs to the family room.

Briana and Kara did as they were told but Samantha did not move. So I went to her bedside and said something like quick baby girl get out of bed-- there is a fire—the firemen are on their way--you need to go downstairs and wait in the family room while I stay here with Dad. To which she answered in her 14 year old sassy tone: What? Are you serious? It’s 7 in the morning. I am not getting out of bed. Wake me when the firemen get here.

And then I lost it: Get out of bed NOW--What part of there is a fire do you not understand?—go downstairs and take the dog. So in the most annoyed manor she got  out of bed and said I am going to put the dog in the basement—I can’t stand hearing him bark so early in the morning. Again I said there is a FIRE—you can’t put the dog in the basement--what if the fire travels?—how will we get the dog out? And she huffed and said Fine. But I am not going to be responsible for him—someone else will have to.

And the entire Garden City fire department came (they were bored—there are hardly any fires in Garden City) and made sure the flames were out. Some of my neighbors gathered on the street. My girls watched MTV  in the family room totally unperturbed by the all the commotion. And when the firemen left, Kara or Briana asked—Can Dad get us Mc Donald’s for breakfast? We didn’t eat yet.

Sometimes mothers question their parenting. This was one of those times. I couldn’t decide whether I was a bad mother who had raised egocentric children or I was a good mother who raised secure children who trusted their parents’ ability to deal with disaster. All I know is that my husband bought everyone Mc Muffins and hot cakes with sausage---and then he went to the office. It was tax season after all.

I never used the pellet stove again. I was too afraid. I enjoyed its decorative value until about a month ago when I decided to rip it out and replace it with a sitting area with a couch.

When my husband painted my bedroom this past weekend he noticed something-- the radiator was not completely turned on. It had been like that for almost 20 years—since we moved in. And when I woke up this morning I thought I was going to pass out. My bedroom was like an oven. My bedroom was nippy all these years because the heat wasn’t fully on.

Who knew? I never needed a pellet stove in the first place. I saw my breath in the morning for all those years for no good reason. Samantha could have slept late, Jasper could have not barked and we could have eaten Eggos for breakfast. And I never would have pondered my parenting skills—or more accurately--pondered them one time fewer. But I wouldn’t have had all this to write about—so I guess we are just about even.