Parenting Through Trauma

Today, I’m tired. Very tired. More tired than I typically am with my 5 month old and 32 year old body.

It’s hot where we are, visiting a friend who has an evaporative cooler in the 100° heat.

On our way over to the friend’s home, we had the radio on, and a PSA ran reminding listeners to check their smoke alarms. It described exactly what I experienced before getting me and my daughter out of our home as it was burning.

It took me right back. I could see the curtains burning. I could see me scooping up my daughter. I could see me turning back, grabbing my husband’s bathrobe because I was naked and it was the closest thing. I see my free arm pushing out the back door. I feel the sharpness of the weeds and gravel on my bare feet. I look back over my shoulder and see the flames ripping through the roof.

Really though, I am sitting next to my daughter in my truck, and my husband is driving. She looks at me with her beautiful baby blues and I have to do what I know to be the right thing: I take a deep breath and smile at her.