The Flames Do Come

Connor has never been a "scared" kid. You know, not scared of Santa, not scared of Mickey Mouse. Fearless about climbing, jumping, diving. Not scared of monsters at night (its never come up). Not scared of ghosts (he swears he sees the ghost of our dead cat, Buddy, all the time and he couldn't care less). He's just not wired that way.

So, it surprised me last night when he suddenly burst into tears over the fire escape ladder.

We were snuggled up in bed reading "New Brother, New Sister"--a favorite around here lately for obvious reasons. In the story, the mom and the dad are clearing out a room for the new baby, painting the crib, etc. We just cleared out our new baby's room this past weekend so I stopped reading at that point and said "That's just like we did on Saturday. A baby room is fun to get ready for." That's what started it.

He suddenly got serious. Sat up. Turned his body to face me and said "Mom, you know that fire escape ladder box that was in the baby's room and that is out in the hall now?" (We have a pile of furniture in the hallway that Bob needs help moving to the basement.) I acknowledged the box. He continued. " I really need you to take it away. Take it to the basement. Put it where I can't see it." I asked why. "Because it reminds me of a fire and I DON'T WANT TO DIE!!!" Explosive tears ensued.

Wow. I was shocked. But I also felt oddly well equipped to deal with the situation. You see, when I was in 3rd grade I spent about 6 months deeply entwined in an immense irrational fear of house fires. Seriously. For me, it stared when some random fireman came to my class and distributed those big orange dot stickers. Your parents were supposed to put these on your bedroom window so that the first responders coming to your house as it blazed to the ground would know that your window was the window of a child who needed to be snatched from the jaws of a melting, searing death. Looking back, I have to say that the whole thing happened around the time that my grandfather died so it really wasn't about fires. It was just the time in my childhood when I became aware of mortality. Aware of the fact that I was going to croak and that people I loved were going to croak. And as is typical of our species, I channeled all of that into a single, graspable issue: worrying about a fire.

I must have made my mother run through a fire escape process with me 100 times. I'd practice the STOP, DROP, & ROLL over and over again before going to sleep. I'd stand a my door and imagine smoke pouring underneath it and practice feeling it to see if it was hot so that I'd know if I should try to go out my window instead. And then, at my window I always made sure I had something bid and hard enough to break the glass in the event I could not lift the window on my own. I'd picture the broken glass strewn about and knew that I would take my pillow case off to lay on the sill so that as I clambered up to make my escape I would not get cut. I felt good about all those bushes below that would cushion my 5 foot drop. I pictured the fire trucks lit up in the yard. I was deep into it.

So, the boy and I had a long chat about fires last night. About how rare they are. About how they generally happen as the result of smoking or candles or heaters or Christmas trees. And we had a long talk about how silly it would be to keep our fire escape ladder in the basement when the only place we'd need it is on the second floor. This weekend we're going to have a fire drill. And we're going to take out the ladder and practice setting it up. And then we're going to put it away and cross our fingers that the acorn fell a little further from the tree. And every once in awhile I'll check to see if he's up late at night practicing the STOP, DROP, & ROLL.

The flames of childhood fears have just begun to lick at our doors here in Tatertown. And it makes me a tiny bit sad. If Connor was a child who had always been afraid of things I would not feel the loss. But in his case, I do. He's had nearly 7 years of joyful ignorance of danger, risk, and death. But clearly that time is passed. We'll do our best to be his guides into this new world, but I for one will grieve for the world that is now lost.