“I can take care of myself.” My 13-year-old son Dalton (name changed to protect the guilty) pleaded his case yet again. While his track record of “taking care of himself” for an hour after school the past year was not stellar, nothing had required a trip to the emergency room and no claims had been made against our homeowner’s insurance. And, unbeknownst to him, I had spies all over the neighborhood keeping an eye on things--and a finger on the 911 button. But this would be a completely different test of his autonomy.
We’d just PCSd (that’s a Navy acronym for a Permanent Change of Station move) to our dream home by the sea, and my closest “spy” was more than 300 miles away. With only a nodding acquaintance with my new neighbors and my husband deployed to the Persian Gulf, I hadn’t had a conversation with an adult in over two weeks. The invitation to a Navy spouse reception where I could meet people was tempting, but it was across town, and after dark. “I’ll be fine,” he begged.
“I’ll hire a babysitter,” I said. I found two names in the community newsletter, but not only were they a year younger than my son, they were also of the female persuasion. If that wasn’t a recipe for trouble, I didn’t know what was.
“He’ll be fine,” I repeated the mantra to myself when I called to accept the invitation.
“He’ll be fine,” I wrote in an email to my husband.
“He’ll be fine,” I reminded myself as I backed my car down the driveway and headed off to the get-together.
The event was everything my socially deprived self needed, and more. No sooner had I loaded my plate with gourmet delights ranging from chicken chiliquiles casserole to homemade southern potato salad, than my cell phone buzzed in my pocket. The only person who had my new number was Dalton, and the only reason he was supposed to call was if there was an emergency. The mini-seafood quiches churned in my stomach as I excused myself. “Mom? The dogs are throwing up all over the house and I don’t know what to do...”
I sighed. Emergency is in the eye of the beholder. “Just clean it up and I’ll be home as soon as I can.”
“I’m not touching it.” The tone of voice made it clear that no amount of cajoling or bribery would get him to change his mind. It’s been my experience that the willingness to perform those types of tasks is a Double-X chromosome trait.
“Well, do something.” I thought about the new white carpet in our new home. “I’m on my way.”
As I sped along the highway, our conversation niggled at my worry button. Had that been a note of hysteria in his voice? I dug my phone out of my pocket and called him back. “How’re you doing?”
“Fine.”
“Did you get everything cleaned up?”
“No. I turned trashcans over it so I don’t have to look at it.”
If all of life’s problems could be solved so easily. “Any idea what made the dogs so sick?”
“Probably because they licked up some of the fire extinguisher foam.”
“Fire extinguisher foam?”
“Yeah. I had to put out a fire.”
“What fire?” My foot pressed the accelerator to the floorboard. The whine of the engine almost drowned out the sound of my heart hammering in my chest. Almost.
“The fire in the oven,” Dalton explained as if it were an everyday event. “One of the chicken nuggets fell off the pan. There were flames everywhere. But the fire is out now, so don’t worry.” I arrived home thirty minutes later, thankful to find my worst-case scenario images had been unfounded. No smoke tendrils curled from a charred skeleton of my beach house. No firefighters carrying my son’s lifeless body over their shoulder rushed through the front door. No blown out windows gave testimony to a natural gas explosion. In fact, with light beaming through the sheer curtains I’d had installed yesterday and the purple petunias spilling from the whiskey barrel planters, the scene reminded me of a Hallmark card.
Reality--and a blast of a dry chemical smell--met me at the door. Upended trashcans led like stepping-stones from the front door to the back. A fine, yellowish powder blackened every surface in the house; like a dusting of snow, only this stuff wouldn’t melt when the temperature rose. The residue crunched under my sandals as I tiptoed across the tiled floor to assess the damage to my new oven.
In all my thirty years of having nuggets or French fries fall off the cooking sheet, I had never had one erupt into flames. Usually they baked into charcoal and laid like black lava rocks until I wiped them up.
Light bulb moment--my son had only cooked with an electric oven. Our new home had gas. He’d extinguished the flame that cooks the food.
The costs of the speeding ticket, the after-hours phone consultation with the vet (the puppies would be okay), the carpet cleaning equipment rental and a repairman to extract the extinguisher powder from the gas jets came in just under $600. Did I yell? Yeah, a little bit. I was tired and we had to work until four a.m. to get all of the flame retardant wiped up so the puppies wouldn’t lick any more and get sick. The clean up did not entail a quick feather duster over the end tables, but required a damp cloth to countertops, tables, baseboards, chair rungs, chandeliers and the lips on the kitchen cupboards, followed mopping and vacuuming the floor and furniture and lampshades. I swear he must have unloaded the entire canister of fire foam and it had floated and settled on every surface imaginable. It was worse than spring cleaning.
