Let there be Heat

59 degrees.

That was the temperature inside my house when I crawled out from under my sleeping back at 5:30am this morning. Taking one look at the alarm clock and muttering my utter disgust at the cold and the hour, I sank back into the bed and curled up against my 4 year old, determined to steal some of his heat for another twenty minutes.

59 degrees.

That was the temperature inside my house when I could no longer stand the sound of the alarm clock at 6:10am. It was off to the shower.

Fast showers are a must this week as the hot water usually lasts about 3 minutes. And yes, I actually have timed it. Jump in, wash hair rinse hair while washing face, condition hair, rinse conditioner while washing body, rinse body in cold water, jump out shivering and realize it's 6:15 and I'm already running late.

I'm then in the kitchen making breakfast in a towel, dripping wet in my incredibly cold house. The kids don't want to wake up, their beds are warm. I decide oatmeal will be nice and that worked well until the pot nearly boiled over. I'm still getting used to this cooking thing.

Later in the day...

"Is your pilot light on?"

I pause on the phone, knowing it wasn't an unreasonable question but still somewhat disgusted.

"...I'm guessing no." I answer flatly.

Several hours and a missed appointment with the utility company later, I have quarantined the kids to a far corner of the house and given them instructions on how to escape in the event of an explosion. They stare at me like I have gone mad.

Pilot lights.

Let me just mention that I've never been in charge of a house with gas heat. I open the hall closet, remembering there was a big metal thing with venting and wires in there. Turns out that is in fact the heating system. I unscrew the front and carefully read the instructions on the inside panel.

EXPLOSION WARNING

I started to just put the panel back on and spend another night in a sleeping bag curled up with a preschooler.

No, I told myself. I can handle this. It's JUST a pilot light.

I follow the instructions, unsure about the old wiring, dusty closet and safety of gas flowing into the unit. Once everything was set up, it was down to flipping a switch. Like a 5 year old afraid to touch a spider, I moved as far away from the unit as possible with the tip of my finger on the switch. One, Two, Flip....

I am not afraid to admit that I did jump out of the way.

Roaring, then the smell of gas. For a second I thought I must have made a fatal error but as the minutes ticked by, the air coming from the vents warmed, and the smell of gas faded, I realized that I hadn't blown up nor was I going to blow up my house.

I took a deep breath and laughed at my own insecurity.

People think I'm fearless. I have fear, I just have the ability to do things anyway, regardless of how afraid of them I am. I guess tonight proves that sometimes that's a good thing.

Tonight also proved something else.

I am capable of surviving without him. I may not like it, but I can do it.