Today’s challenge is: What would you run out of the house with if your house caught on fire.
I am an octopus. I am an octopus. I am an octopus. It’s not just a myth or inside joke that all women have eight arms the second they have children. It’s true. I am an octopus and I can do this.
Smoke filled the air and the crackle of the flames almost obscured the increasing volume of sirens heard coming down my street. At least I think they were coming down my street. It would really suck if they weren’t. After all, I just called 9-1-1 two minutes ago. How many other house fires could there be in the same neighborhood?
My arms grew heavy with the weight, but it didn’t stop me. I took one step at a time down the stairs, careful to avoid my son’s collection of toy cars that he loves to leave the on the stairs. I choked on the smoke as I worked my way down. The door to freedom and fresh air was only a few more feet away.
I had my two-year-old under my left arm, my one-year-old under my right arm and my husband over my back.
“Seriously, honey,” he said. “I can walk. You don’t need to carry me.”
“There’s….no…time.” My lungs burned from all the smoke I was inhaling. “Do you still have the cats?”
“Yup,” he said. “I’m holding on to both of the cat carriers as tight as I can.”
The door in front of us burst open as men clad in yellow, reflective, flame-retardant uniforms came bursting in. I brushed past them, heading outside to the front lawn where several of our neighbors helped me unload everything precious to me. I collapsed to the ground; my arms and legs felt like jello.
“How you doing, babe?” My husband patted me on the back.
I gave him the thumbs up.
“Do you need anything?”
The secure knowledge that I am insured up the ass with a company I trust.
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