My head is spinning, my knees are weak, and my hands can’t stop shaking. I feel as though I just ran a mile. Or five. How many calories does one really good adrenaline burst burn anyway?

Where to start…

We were in Olivia’s room. Reading books. I thought I smelled smoke, but passed it off as a weird scent drifting from her humidifier. (We need to change that filter.) But then came the series of piercing beeps that confirmed it: somewhere, something was burning.

Hoping for something small, I was the first out the door into the living room. Met with billowing smoke, my optimistic suspicions were doused. I followed the stench towards the kitchen where I saw flickering orange light reflected off the tiled wall above the sink. Turning the corner, comprehension dawned in a stomach-dropping, ton-of-bricks-falling kind of way.

There, on the stove top, was the tray to the high chair. And there, in the middle of that tray, exactly where the burner was located underneath it, was a burning ring of fire.

And it burned, burned, burned. That ring of fire.

I shrieked for Josh, while dropping to my knees to find the fire extinguisher under the sink. Not finding one, I remembered that was our last apartment. This one didn’t come with a fire extinguisher under the sink.

So I grabbed two of the biggest cups I could find and started filling them with water, calling again for Josh in a shrill voice. As I turned, water in hand, ready to act, he appeared. I asked, “Water?!” to confirm my actions as the course to take. He nodded and said “That should work.”

I knew there were some fires on which you are not to pour water. I remembered those types of fires as electrical. We have a gas stove. On his agreement, I poured.

The kitchen then proceeded to explode.

Upon which, I turned on my heel to sprint to safety, only to slip in a puddle of water and come crashing down on my face.

Water, it appears, was not the correct method for extinguishing this particular fire.

I picked myself back up and headed towards the cabinet, braving the blaze. Pulling out the flour, I ripped off the lid, and threw handfuls onto the flames. It didn’t make a dent.

Next, I pulled out the baking soda. Luckily, the box was full, because it took just that much to almost put out the fire. With just a few flames remaining, I pulled a plate from the cupboard, held it under the tray to catch the dripping plastic, and carried the molten mess to the sink to finish the dying embers with a spray from the hose.

How could this happen, you ask? I can’t be sure, since all we have is photographic evidence, which I hear isn’t very strong in the court of law.

Approximately 6:30pm, March 31, 2008:

Approximately 9:29pm, March 31, 2008:

Your guess is as good as mine.

Olivia was distraught. She kept crying: “Oh no! High chair bwoken! Oh no!”

Benjamin wasn’t concerned for his high chair, so much as the safety of his fire-fighin’ mama.

I’m okay. We’re okay. The high chair is dead.

[Moment of silence.]

The end.