Warning: This story contains an image of my father in a pink bath towel. Don't worry, it is rated PG-13. No full nudity occurs.
Rule Number One: Don’t Wake Mom
(Unless the House is on Fire)
If I live to be a hundred, I will
never forget the time I nearly burned down the house. I was ten years old. The incident involved a cinnamon flavored
pop-tart, an aging toaster, and my sleep-deprived mother.
Mom had
trained us never to wake her. She worked
the night shift at a nursing home, see, and came home around seven in the
morning. Rule number one growing up in
our house was always Don’t Wake Mom. Not
only did she stumble home red-eyed and exhausted from an evening of taking care
of the elderly, but on the rare occasions I found need to wake her, it was a
terrifying experience. She would always
stare vacantly at us for a moment or two before something in her eyes would
change and she would gasp, grab a hold of our arms, or sometimes even give a
little shriek. Not how you want to start
your mama’s day, trust me.
So as I
stared at the thick cloud of black smoke puffing up from the malfunctioning
toaster, I actually froze, considering: Do
I wake mom up for this?
I’m sure
that with the entire home in jeopardy, some of you are wondering why I would
have even paused. All I can say in my
defense is that I was pretty sure she might kill me. After all, I had actually set the house on
fire. All I had wanted was a cinnamon
pop tart, and I’d realized something was wrong when the minute and a half
needed to toast the thing had passed, with no springing sound of the pop tart
ejecting. Clearly, the toaster was
eating my pop tart for me. Was this
worth waking mom for? Yes. Was I going to get out of this without
getting in trouble? Hard to say.
I tiptoed to
her bedroom, wanting to break the news to her as gently as possible. I lightly pushed on the bedroom door, taking
a deep breath.
“Mom,” I
called in a hushed whisper. “Mom…”
Nothing. I hesitated.
“Mom,” I managed in a slightly louder voice. “Mom… the toaster is smoking a little bit,” I
was downplaying the amount of smoke, hoping that by giving her a less dramatic
version of what was happening, I might lessen my punishment.
Mom stirred
under her covers but didn’t open her eyes or respond. I frowned, hovering in the doorway. This was not good.
Quickly, I
ran lightly down the hallway, skidding to a stop in front of the kitchen. My mouth dropped as I took in the scene in
front of me. The heavy black smoke
poured upwards, the pop tart a smoldering black mass of goo bubbling over the
toaster. Orange flames shot up and
licked the bottom of our cabinets.
I raced back
down the hallway, flying into Mom’s bedroom and grabbing her by the shoulder.
“Mom,” I
began urgently, “Mom… the toaster’s smoking a lot!”
She mumbled
something unintelligible, attempting to roll back over.
“Mom!” I screamed, panic taking over. “Mom, the toaster is on FIRE!”
At this,
with one fluid motion, she shot out of bed, threw back the covers and went
sprinting down the hallway. As I
followed behind, I heard, “OH MY GOD!”
She raced back
by me as I cowered in the living room, entranced by the toaster fire blazing away
in the next room.
What
happened after that has been burned into my memory, a hilarious image that will
stay with me all of my life:
“JOHN!” I
heard my mother’s panicked squawk, followed by a muffled, urgent conversation
hidden from my ears as it was covered by the bathroom door banging open and the
hissing sound of my father’s interrupted shower.
The next
thing I knew, my father came exploding down the hallway, a tiny pink bath towel
wrapped around his waist, barely (but thankfully, completely) covering
everything one hoped would be covered.
Legs pumping like an NFL player’s, he rounded the corner, skidded across
the kitchen to the toaster, and as I watched fascinated, he grasped the toaster
and its cord out of the wall with one hand, hurling it into the sink and
jerking on the faucet to extinguish the flames, all the while using his other
hand to continue to keep his towel wrapped around his waist.
And just
that quick, it was over.
I learned a
lot that day (besides the obvious—that you always wake up an adult if the house
is on fire). I learned that I could
depend on my family. I learned that
honesty is always the best policy, that I could tell my mother anything. She was angry and amused that I was afraid to
wake her, given the situation. She also
decided that other than a mild chastising, no other punishment was in order,
considering the trauma I had just experienced in nearly burning down the
house. But what I realized from that day
forth is that no matter what, my mother would be there for me.
And
thankfully, in every other subsequent mess I ever got myself into, the solution
never again included my nearly naked father in a pink bath towel.
