All the years of careful disaster training, the drills, the metal fire ladder purchase, the detailed escape plan, the nose like a bloodhound.
These things were rendered USELESS in the blink of an eye.
This morning at 5:30 a.m. we were nearly done in by a badly dressed Barbie doll left too close to an ancient defective stove in the basement.
My husband dropped by our room after he had effectively saved our lives by destroying the blaze singlehandedly with a pan of dirty water.
He didn’t want me to panic if I smelled the aroma of burnt plastic.
I had slept through the WHOLE THING.
My mother would be ashamed. She has spent a lifetime sharpening my skills and instilling in me a lifelong fear of fire since her own house burnt to the ground as a child.
Everyone escaped that fiasco but the eternal flame of terror in her mind had been lit never to be extinguished.
She trained me up right using our 200-year-old farm-house to illustrate her point. Namely that this sucker could go up in flames in seconds flat and you had to know how to stop, drop, roll, commando crawl, apply wet towels to your face and head and have your escape route planned.
Fortuitously, hubby was downstairs in the basement sleeping on the futon after being unceremoniously jettisoned from his own bed by a group of unruly children.
So thankfully, all is well now and everyone has gone back to school and work. That leaves me and the ticking time bomb stove sitting here together eyeing each other up.
Wait until I tell my mother.