Our extended family has a joke that we can't have a holiday or major party without calling 911 at some point.
On Father's Day a couple years ago, Grandma slipped and hurt her leg, passing out in the process.
The day after Christmas last year, Mac broke his arm.
This week, we had to call the fire department.
Kensi's friend (our cousin, Shae) was spending the night, and they were in the living room "sleeping" (read: talking).
Holly and I were upstairs, trying to get a movie to work on Netflix. Mom and Dad were asleep in their room, Mac was across the hall from us.
We clicked play for the hundredth time, watching it load
soooo sloooooowly.
And then we heard a popping/banging noise.
We both looked to the closed door.
"It was probably Mac," I said, shrugging.
"Should we check on him?" Holly asked, staring at the door.
"
You can."
She stood up and looked back at me. "Can you please come?"
I rolled my eyes and shoved the blankets and laptop off of me. "Come on," I said impatiently. I opened the door and walked to Mac's room, Holly close behind. The two little girls stood at the foot of the stairs.
"Did you hear that?" Shae asked.
"Yeah. It was probably Mac. Go to sleep," I told them.
I opened his door to find his room dark and silent, with him sprawled out across his bed, sound asleep.
Holly and I exchanged glances, this time with alarm and maybe a bit of excitement.
We stood there in his doorway for a moment, tense, listening.
"Addi," Holly whispered. "I think I smell burning."
I glanced at the bathroom, gesturing for her to follow me. We poked in, checking that no curling irons or anything were on. Nothing was plugged in, but the smell was definitely stronger in here.
Our bathroom is split into two rooms, the big part with the sink and counter and mirror, where you fix your hair and whatnot. Then there's a door, behind which is the shower and toilet. It's actually quite genius, because someone can be taking a shower while someone else is brushing their teeth.
I opened the door.
Strange, molten, thread like substance dripped from the ceiling, (luckily) collecting directly in the trash can.
I looked up and gasped.
"Uh, Hollers," I said. "Our house is on fire."
Which was not exactly true. The fan had been left on (I left it on, in case you were wondering) and had started an electrical fire in the vent. It was smaller than a campfire.
I told the little girls to get Mom and Dad. Holly ran for the fire extinguisher, and Dad put it out fairly easily.
Then the real fun began.
All us kids, including a half asleep Mac, sat in the living room while Dad called the fire department so they could double check that everything was safe.
Less than three minutes later, six, I repeat
six, fire trucks were on our street, sirens and lights and everything.
We were all laughing somewhat hysterically, and Holly asked Dad (probably ten times) if he actually told them the fire was out. And tiny.
Anyway, six fire trucks, nine firefighters in our house, twenty minutes, and some ripped out insulation later, they declared it safe.
And our one full bathroom has this lovely gaping hole in the ceiling. It's about the size of a piece of printer paper.
But they did say it could have been a lot worse, and we were super lucky.
So we were immensely thankful afterwards.
And Holly and I will probably be using this as an excuse to watch movies on Netflix late at night for months to come.
