Mea Culpa

“Mommy, I have to tell you something, but you have to promise you won’t tell Daddy.”

For the record? Nothing good ever starts this way. Ever.

“Sweetie, Daddy and I are your parents together, so if I think there’s something I need to tell him, I’m going to tell him. Now what do you want to tell me?”

“I call the fire department.”

I immediately picture red trucks with flashing lights barreling towards our house, sirens wailing. Then I remember that we live 1.5 blocks from the fire house and they’d be here already. “What number did you call?”

“The regular one.” She mimes dialing 9-1-1 on the wall of her bedroom.

“When did you call the fire department, Abby?”

“At Grandma Judy’s house. When she was in the shower and Daddy was asleep and the sheriff called.”

I think back to the four days we have just spent with my mother-in-law. As far as I know, there were no call from the authorities, no screeching sirens or anything out of the ordinary. And then I remember. Not this trip. Over the summer.

“You mean over the summer? When we came to pick you up?”

“Yes. And the sheriff called.”

I remember the early morning phone call, Brian answering in a voice that was still half-asleep. No officer, I don’t believe anyone here called 911. My wife and I were asleep, and the only one up was my four-year-old. She says she didn’t call, sir. It must have been the burglar alarm tripping. I’m sorry, sir. Thanks for calling to check it out.

“Abby, why did you call the fire department?”

“Well. Grandma was in the shower and I had to go to the bathroom really bad. It was an emergency.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me or Daddy?”

“I didn’t want to wake you up.”

Do you know how hard it is to deliver a stern but compassionate lecture about how important it is to not call 911 unless there’s a real emergency, but how proud you are of your little girl for telling the truth, even if it is a bit out of context, all while keeping a straight face because,  COME ON!!1!! “It was an emergency.”