It was about three months after the first time (see Thursday's post if you're not sure). Now the twins were three and so, so busy. It was lunch time and Justin was eating all the time. I could barely keep up.
This day it was chicken nuggets. I don't even remember now how exactly it happened, but before I knew it, there was a chicken nugget on fire in the oven. On fire. In the oven.
Well, I panicked. I had three under three in my house. I wasn't sure what to do. Did I open the oven and risk spreading the flames (that was a thing, right?), or did I pull out the extinguisher and hope it didn't spread?
So I grabbed the cordless phone (I loved that phone! I miss it!) and we ran out onto the porch. I called 911 this time.
"So, I just have a really small fire in my oven," I tried to keep my voice calm. After reciting my address and name, I went on to say, "Can you not send a bunch of fire trucks? I really don't think it's that big of a deal."
Well, that is not how it works.
So, three fire engines raced to our door in record time (Jacob and Emma were delighted). They marched into the house, and by the time they got there the chicken nugget that had been burning had turned into...
a black, charred rock. No longer on fire. But it had filled the kitchen with smoke. They still had to spray the oven, just to be sure, I guess.
They were so kind. I was so mortified.