On the Fire Truck

I don’t think we’ve been to the fire department to visit since before Christmas.


The phone rang in the middle of the night, forcing my husband out of bed and allowing me to stretch out and cuddle into that sweet spot right in the middle. A garage fire kept him out all night, leaving him just enough time to come home and shower before heading back to the fire department for his normal shift. In his rush, he forgot his toiletries bag.

So after Children’s Choir tonight, we ran it over to him—showing up just in time to wash the fire trucks. We meaning that the boys jumped right in, washing the trucks with sheer joy while I sat on the couch in the garage and snapped photos. I watched as LittleBrother skipped—a new skill—from fire truck to fire truck.


As a special treat, the boys got to “ride” in the fire truck as it was pulled out of the garage so the other firefighters could squeegee the water down the drains. All the joy.

As we got back in our car, LittleBrother asked an important question.

“Daddy, when I’m a firefighter, how old will you be?”

My husband’s heart darn near exploded with joy. I love being part of this family—our four person unit and the fire department.

On the Fire Truck



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