Last night while I was putting the kids to bed, Daniel came flying up the stairs telling us that there was a house on fire one street over from us.
(And contrary to popular opinion, that doesn't mean that he jumped into his turnouts and raced across the street dragging his SCBA gear behind him- he wasn't on duty.)
We could see all of the flashing lights, the flames, the engines, the streams of water, the guys cutting a hole in the roof with chainsaws; I think we disappointed Daniel with our reactions. Jacob cried. Cambria cried. I got all weepy.
Daniel got frustrated. "What in the world, guys?! This is exciting! This is what I do! And you guys are all just scared!"
It's different for him; he knows the ins and outs and ups and downs of fire. But for us it looks scary, and more scary because he is involved. He talked to the kids and calmed them down and they had a nice little chat about the whole thing.
I like that Daniel is a firefighter. Actually I love that about him. It's cool. I admit it.
The coolness factor fades pretty quick when there is actually a fire.
"We're safe, we're careful, there aren't unnecessary risks," he says. Blah blah blah blah blah.
Yeah, but the bottom line is, however cliche it may sound, that they go in when everybody else runs out.
Which is why fire is never fun for me to watch.