Fire Drill

Some days working full-time can be more stressful after you get home. Shortly after returning to school post-Christmas break D had a fire drill. I came home after picking up A at daycare and my dad was in a somber mood, unusual for him. I noticed D was keeping his distance from Papa, unusual for him.

My dad took a deep breath and said, “I need to tell you something. Um, D had a fire drill at school today. I had sweet potatoes in a pot and I went to the garage to throw out some recycling and D stood at the door of the garage and yelled: FIRE! I ran back in the house and found that he had grabbed a paper towel, lit it on the burner, and then pulled it over onto the counter. So I had to throw out those muffins and the crockpot knob is halfway melted.” My dad was cool as a cucumber as my anxiety hit the roof.

It took a lot for my dad to tell me what happened knowing how easily I can freak out when it comes to my kids. It’s ok. Everything is ok now. They’re ok. I had to keep repeating in my head for several minutes. D finally gave me a hug and flashed his huge dimples, then he pulled me over to the crockpot and said, “oh no! Broken!” “It’s not broken buddy, it melted.” He looked at me as if to say: I knew that, and walked off.

Needless to say my dad is waiting until D is asleep to throw out the recycling. That day could’ve had a very different ending, but I’m grateful it didn’t. D knows he’s not allowed to be near the stovetop, unless he’s invited to watch how a meal is cooked. His favorite to watch is spaghetti.

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