Little Bean's Toy

Jessie: You never forget kids like Emily, or Andy, but they forget you.

Not true, Jessie. Not true. Little Bean cannot forget you. 

It's been 19 months since our house fire and to this day, Little Bean carries on daily about her Toy Story Jessie doll. That is the one thing she wants back so bad her little heart hurts for it. We had told her it might come back from the fire restoration warehouse or the laundry service but we just didn't know. Maybe. 

And she held out hope in her little heart. We hoped she might forget, that she might move on. Nope. We thought she might latch onto a new Jessie doll. Or two. Or three. Nope, nope, nope. They are not THE Jessie doll. 

Recently, her big brother picked up a broken pull-string Woody at a thrift-store hoping to ease the pain. Woody has become a frequent visitor at every family meal and he accompanies her on every trip out of the house except for school, but Jessie he is not. 

I understand her pain. There are one or two items we have all cried over and hoped against hope that maybe, they  just might turn up in the boxes that have been returned from the warehouse. 

It is just stuff. 

We've heard that a lot since the fire. It's just stuff. 

I say, "relevant to what?" I mean, yeah...we're alive. Life is certainly more important than stuff. But the stuff mattered, you know? It mattered. 

Molly the American Girl doll...she mattered. She was a cherished possession for Rough Stuff. Great Grandpa's wallet...that mattered. It meant the world to the Big Guy. Teddy...Teddy mattered to Tuna. Teddy shared a bed through two surgeries with Tuna. My recipe box...that mattered. I teared up every time I thought about it for days until the Big Guy was able to navigate through the wet insulation and broken glass in what was our kitchen and dig it out for me. 

Stuff matters. It is important. Our stuff is the tangible collective memory of our lives. And when we lose our really important stuff, we lose a little piece of ourselves. 

I'm angry at the stupid crock pot that burned our house up and destroyed our stuff. Yes, I'm mad at a crock pot. Because when I see my little girl crying over Jessie for 19 months straight, I need to be mad at something. I'm sad. Because it hurts to see your children suffer a loss.I know it's not all about Jessie. I know that Jessie is just a symbol for everything that little girl had to grieve after the fire.  

But...we can't stay angry and sad forever. Somewhere along the way, the laughter and fun outweigh the anger and sadness and we party on.  

Little Bean is partying Toy Story style. Yes, that is dog hair on my rug. Just keepin' it real folks.  

We Can Clean That

Dressed in disposable clothes and respirator masks, our fire restoration crew poked through our home packing up anything they thought they could clean and save for us. Then the insurance agent entered our home and persuaded them to pack a little more. Suddenly, in her presence, things that moments before were "hazardous material," "toxic," and "trash" were pointed out with the exclamation "we can clean that!"

The fire restoration crew assured us that all things plastic or pressed wood were trash. The insurance agent begged to differ. She was positive that everything from TVs to assemble-yourself type furniture could be cleaned and restored as good as new. We were skeptical but didn't feel we had much choice. We would let them try and then we would work it out later with the insurance agent if needed.

It's later.

After 19 months, our stuff returned home. Please know that it did not take the fire restoration service 19 months to clean our things- it took 19 months for us to rebuild, move home, argue with the insurance company about what was being returned, and finally resign ourselves to getting back our crap. 

 And here it is.

We hand-picked a few sentimental items for the crew to take. The crew picked things to take. The insurance agent told them to take more. Then, the demolition crew shoveled the rest of our stuff out into several large dumpsters. The point is...we have no idea what is in those boxes. It's like Christmas. We have no idea what we're unwrapping and whatever it is, we haven't seen it in 19 months!   

The disappointing thing is, there isn't really that much of it. Each of those boxes contains on average about 5 items and 2 trees worth of packing paper. We've only opened a handful of boxes so far, but we can tell that we didn't really get much back. 

We left the furniture outside because...well...it stinks. And it's junk. 

Take our media cabinet, for example. It doesn't look so bad, huh? The photo doesn't really show the whole picture. This cabinet was just a few feet away from the flames that destroyed our kitchen and part of the family room. The heat was so intense that the big screen TV above this cabinet melted. The over-stuffed chair beside the cabinet burned. 

Wood and intense heat are not friends. 

 The cabinet is no longer one solid piece of furniture. We could lose quarters in those gaps. I'm sure it's still sturdy, right?

They returned Little Bean's bed. It is made of pressed wood which the fire restoration company told us they didn't like to take because it crumbles apart, but the insurance agent insisted.

 Looks fine, yeah?

No worries though. The insurance agent paid for a new headboard. Shaking my head. We'll just put a new headboard on there and it should hold up just fine. As long as nobody breathes on it.

They also brought back her Dora The Explorer desk.  

Don't mind Dora's new complexion. She's been ozoned to remove smoke odors. She smells great! 

Remember the chair with the shrunken rungs from our visit to the warehouse ?

All fixed!

That's courtesy of our Glue-It-Back-Together policy! You should make sure you have that option written into your insurance policy in case your house ever catches on fire. I bet if we add a new coat of paint they'll be good as new. 

And the icing on the cake...

Our dining room table. Yes, it's been licked by flames. No, that's not camera glare on the table. That is actually part of the finish now. The Boy said, "well, you like rustic. It's rustic." Yes, Son. It is certainly rustic. If only we decorated in Char. 

Of course, it was not all bad. We've already unpacked things we never thought we'd see again. 

Yes, they cleaned a bottle of dirt for us. Not just any dirt, now! That is red dirt from Oklahoma collected on a family vacation. There are a few of these bottles of dirt and I almost cried when I unearthed them from the packing paper. 

When all of this fire recovery is in the distant past and the smell of burnt house has faded, these little tangible memories of better times will remain. 

Things we hope are in those boxes:

Great grandpa's wallet

Grandpa's wallet and sheet music

Grandpa's belt and work hat

Our wedding photos

Our Lil Water Maiden lamp

We'll keep you posted!   

 

How I Light It Up Blue

You know what some folks call The Boy?

“Autistic.”

You know what The Boy calls those folks?

“Neurotypicals.”  (With an eyeroll.)

You know what I call The Boy?

“Son.”  

What does autism look like in our home?

Amazing aluminum flowers creatively carved from pop cans. Contagious laughter. A smile that warms your heart.  Anime collections and obsessions.  A graduating senior. A college-bound young man. Deep, thoughtful eyes. Poetry. Photography. Ceramics and sculpture. A profound love of nature. A deep sense of fairness and justice.  Mad dodgeball skills. Bug whispering. A dedicated big brother. A loving son. An equal rights activist.    

It also looks like this:

Regular home visits with intensive care case managers. Routine psychiatric appointments. Ongoing therapy for our son, for our children, for our marriage. System of care meetings. Independent Supported Living placement. Individualized Education Plans. Speech therapy. Language therapy. Writing supports. Functional behavioral therapy.  Rigid planning. Excessive toe and finger tapping.  Pureed spaghetti sauce.

It is estimated that 1 in every 88 children live with autism- 1 in every 54 are boys. Children don’t outgrow autism. They become adults who live with autism and struggle to cope in a neurotypical world. They are your neighbors, coworkers, family, and friends.

My hope for World Autism Awareness Day is that everyone who has been touched by autism will reach out to educate someone else about autism.  Tell your story. Share your experiences. Raise awareness!

Happy World Autism Awareness Day!

15 Reasons I Love Snow in March

1. There are no chiggers biting at my feet leaving me with nasty red, itchy welts that take weeks to heal. 
2. I'm not sweating. No stinky, sweaty clothes. 
3. No fireworks. No one is shooting flaming arrows into the sky above me or my house. 
4. No mosquitoes. See number 1. 
5. No spiders dropping from trees or crawling in my car. (Shuddering.)
6. I don't have to stress about my old toenail polish or how yucky my heels look because hey, I can wear lug bottom, fur-lined Skechers. 
7. No tornado warnings. 
8. Only the Big Guy knows if I didn't shave today. 
9. The snow is so pretty!
10. More time spent indoors means less time looking at my un-sided house.
11. I don't have to think about the wrecked landscaping quite yet. 
12. Jeans, wool coats, fuzzy socks, and flannel lounge shirts appeal to my fabulous tastes in fashion. Okay, maybe not but they do nurture my soul. 
13. Cold weather means more comfort foods! Can we say hot chocolate, beef stew, and warm mac & cheese? Oh yes. 
14. Things get cancelled. No after school activities and no evening events. It's an opportunity to stay home and recoup. 
15. The snow covers a multitude of sins. It even makes the big post-fire construction dumpster look nicer. 

     

Man on a Motorcycle

The Fish performed in her 7th grade orchestra concert this week.

She was so nervous but the concert was absolutely wonderful. We also listened to the 8th grade orchestra concert. And the Bridges orchestra concert. And the Concert orchestra concert. And the Symphonic orchestra concert. Whew.  That was a long concert. 

I was well prepared for keeping two little sisters content and quiet through all those performances. I had a bag full of fidget toys. My absolute favorite fidget toy is the Tangle. I sat Little Bean and Rough Stuff between me and Tuna and brought out the Tangles. 

We made all sorts of fun shapes and the girls were so very, very quiet!

They sat there quietly twisting and tangling. 

And then Rough Stuff twisted her Tangle into this:

And that was the end of the quiet. 

She was using this shape as a bow to play her air violin which meant it was careening wildly through the air in a quite inappropriate motion. I looked over and gasped. 

I gave her the mom look and I shook my head and tried to look disgusted but Tuna and Little Bean were getting the giggles and then the nice ladies behind us began to giggle and all hope was lost. 

I motioned for her to scrunch it up with my hand but that only brought more hysterical giggles. 

That is a man on a motorcycle by the way. What were you thinking?

On the Road Again

Last week's schedule was an ugly beast. It kicked off with a visit to the orthopedic surgeon to check out the Big Guy's damaged ligaments. Tuesday there was a field trip for Rough Stuff and we celebrated the Boy's birthday with a dinner out. (Yes, his birthday was in January. We are that far behind around here.) (Oh, stop it. He did get a laptop for his 18th birthday, we just didn't get around to dinner. Save your judgment for bigger issues. I have plenty to offer!)

Wednesday brought a visit to the pediatric orthopedic surgeon to check on Tuna's hip surgery recovery. She got to chuck the crutches and is walking beautifully. Thursday brought a field trip for Little Bean and that ended with a call from the teacher. She apparently went down the twisty slide and twisted her neck. The teacher called, the ambulance was on the way, and we drove the half hour drive to meet them in 15 minutes. We spent 5 hours at the ER (our second home) while the doctor worked on her sprained muscles. She is living on ibuprofen.

Then Friday we met the nurse who taught us how to give our terrified Fish  the Human Growth Hormone injections. There were tears and queasy tummies all around, but I did manage to get that first needle into my violently sobbing target and successfully inject the first of several hundred doses. (And we all lived to tell the tale.) I also managed to work nearly 40 hours in the midst of all that chaos and have conversations with our new specialty pharmacy, medication fulfillment specialist, nurse, and patient care representative. I was exhausted. I wanted to just pack the whole nasty week up and sweep it right out the front door.

So, you'll understand why I decided if we survived the week we were getting the heck out of Dodge come Saturday morning. We needed to do something fun to kick off spring break. We've been putting off a trip to see my Great Aunt for several years. We've been waiting on the right moment and obviously the right moment is not something we are destined to experience so it was time to just make it happen. I packed a small bag late Friday night and told the girls to pack clean jammies and a change of clothes and we booked a hotel room. 

Saturday morning we were on the road and Tuna played On the Road Again every single time the van left a parking space. Every. Single. Time. Little Bean made sure her Jessie dolls saw everything as we drove through the Flint Hills.

We counted silos and cursed the rain and sang 80s songs really loud. Three hours later we were off the turnpike and nearing my Great Aunt's house. I told the kids it was time to get out all of their ugliness. I said "get it out now! Every fart. Every burp. Every potty-mouth word. Get it all out. Because you will not embarrass me in front of this sweet lady." My Great Aunt is 86 and I really didn't think she would find their brand of humor funny. 

We rode in silence for about five minutes. Suddenly, the silence was interrupted with a piercing "FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUDGE!" (Or something very close.) I let off the gas and gripped the steering wheel tight, eyes scanning the road and mirrors. I wasn't sure if Tuna was in some kind of serious pain or if I had just run over a small child. She looked at me as if nothing had happened and the car remained eerily silent as we tried to take in what had just occurred. 

Then she launched into a run-on expletive marathon that rivaled Eddie Murphy. "Sonofableepfubeepshibeepholybeepcubeeplickercobeepsuckermotherbleepdambleephelbleepbleepbleep!"

She sat back in her seat silent and the back seats erupted into fits of laughter. I'm talking belly laughs, snorts, and giggles galore. I was speechless. I am not sure if I'm raising a comedian or the spawn of Satan. The Big Guy thinks I had an affair with a sailor. "You told me to get it all out" she said. She punctuated the rest of the short drive with short bursts of profanity. 

We had a wonderful dinner with my Great Aunt and a fabulous visit the next day with our cousins. Oh, and we found a Braum's! We don't have Braum's in our area so when we travel in the vicinity of a Braum's we get a little carried away. The Big Guy read the online bank statement- "Braum's! Braum's! Braum's! Braum's!" Yeah, well. It's good stuff. We also brought 6 cartons home on dry ice to share with the boys since they didn't get included in this trip.  

Rough Stuff, Fish, Little Bean, and Tuna enjoying their Braum's. 

It was a short trip, but nothing feeds the soul like a nice visit with distant family and good ice cream. It was a great way to end a crappy week. 

Progress report on the house: 

NADA. Zip. Zilch. Zero. 

Oh well, there is always next week month. (Just waiting on the big guy to get those splints off his wrists.)

By the way- Who tears up both wrists at the same time?! Who does that? What family visits multiple orthopedic doctors in one week and then tops the week off with a sprained neck while still recovering from a house fire? 

That's us. We do. The Whole Herd. Living life one catastrophe at a time so you don't have to. You're welcome.  

   

  

Avoiding the Honey-Do List

The honey-do list is long...

Honey-do List:

Base boards
Linen closet shelves
Full-length mirror in master closet
Pegs for jewelry in master closet
Rails on Tuna's bed
Organize and unpack office
Laundry room shelves and rod  

And it won't be changing any time soon.

I like to say the Big Guy was a lot like Charlie Brown kicking the football in the Peanuts cartoons. He likes to tell people I pulled back the football and made him fall. Honestly, I was nowhere near him and I'm really sad about that. If I'd been closer, I would have snapped a photo on my phone because I could see this whole disaster unfolding. 

The driveway was cleared of snow, but a few patches of ice remained here and there. He was kicking a tub of snow out of the driveway so we wouldn't run over it with the truck. He kicked the tub several times and then rounded the corner of the house where I could no longer see him. I didn't need to see. I knew. I heard the last kick. Then I heard this sound. It was kind of a grunt wrapped in a sort of splat mingled with a sonofablip.  I rounded the corner and found the Big Guy flat on the ground in the slush just as I knew I would. 

And so begins the next chapter of our crazy lives. We meet the orthopedic specialist Monday morning. It should be refreshing. We get to visit the adult orthopedic clinic! Injuring both hands is one way to avoid the honey-do list. It is a little over the top if you ask me.