Walking Through Fire

As a mother of boys, I would like to believe that I can handle most anything. In the face of blood and vomit and late nights, no weapon formed against me shall prosper, even if it's running down my leg from a leaky diaper. I have walked through the trials of hospital stays, foreign objects lodged in ears, boogers on the walls, and poop smeared on the shower curtain.

I raise boys, therefore I can conquer the world.

I have never, until this day, walked through fire.

Or rather, into a kitchen on fire.

The task for the 9-year old was simple, one he had done several times. Put water in the medium sized red pot. Put pot on stove. Set stove to high to boil water for mac n cheese.

He got the water, the stove, and the red part right.

The pot, however, was a detail that seemed to slip his mind.

Rather, this sweet one grabbed a red mixing bowl of the plastic variety.

Sitting in my bedrom, watching the 7-year old work on a dot-to-dot, I wondered why I heard noise in the kitchen. Why, oh why, would boiling water be so loud?

"Cameron! What did you do?! Everybody out of the apartment!"

Insert panicked running in and out, asking "what do I do? What do I do?"

9-year old: "Mom, throw water on it!!"

Right. Quit blowing on, wishing for a fire extinguisher, and use WATER.

I pause to ask, where was this sense of mind when he placed my KitchenAid bowl on the stove?

3 pots of water and some huffing and puffing later, the fire was out.

The smoke alarms continued with some fanfare, and tired themselves out soon after the next-door neighbor sauntered over, hands in his pockets, glancing in: "Everything all right?". Sure--see my smoke-filled apartment? Frightened children? Hear the alarms? "Great", I told him, "just a little fire". You may now resume your childless, mostly quiet and fire free life, young one.

While I go look for a new burner and mixing bowl.