Fire Alarm

Today we had a dress rehearsal for my daughter's upcoming dance concert. This is her seventh event like this; it is old hat for our entire family. Even my son, who tags along for dress rehearsal and performances, knows exactly what to expect. 

The routine may be old hat, but my daughter's group got their own tent backstage for costume changes. All this time, she has had to change with her groups in adjacent rooms, but now she is backstage with all the big girls. Everyone was excited. 

I made sure my son had his school backpack full of books so he would be entertained during dress rehearsal. Because we were in a new place, he had a hard time figuring out where to settle down and read, especially since the tent was rather small for all the moms and dancers to be in at once...and a stray little boy. 

The dancers lined up in front of the tent to go onstage, and we were even more displaced. My son was pushed all the way to the door on the cinder block wall. 

I looked towards my daughter, who was warming up in line, and glanced down just as I saw little five-year-old fingers perfectly follow the instructions on the fire alarm pull. Push in, pull down. 

Too late. The alarm blared.

He didn't realize it was him. "Buddy, that was you!" I said. "I didn't know! I didn't know," he cried. I didn't believe him at first. And then I remembered that my little boy doesn't lie. 

We had to evacuate. I told a stage person that my son tripped he alarm. Dancers shivered in the January outdoors. My son and I went around the corner and sat on a curb, away from the anxious crowd. I felt sick, but my son was simply devastated and bawling. 

"Did you know that was a fire alarm?" 

"No! I didn't know!"

"Remember when we were in church once, and the same thing happened when a kid pulled the alarm, and everyone had to go outside?"

"Yeah."

"That's what you just did. It called the firemen. They have to make sure everything is safe before anyone can go back in."

He broke down with a new wave of understanding. Though interested in the real firemen who came to check out the building, he wasn't happy. 

I wasn't either, but I didn't say so. 

But then I heard a group of moms talking just around the corner. 

"Is this for real?"

"I hope not!"

"This is ridiculous. They're going to get so far behind."

"I hear a little boy pulled the alarm."

"What was he thinking? I hope this blew his ears out!"

I was shocked. I was mad. I wished I could see who said that so I could stomp on her foot. 

We apologized to the owner via email. I offered to pay for the firemen or whatever I could do to fix it. But I couldn't look at the other moms, not with my boy in tow. 

A girl of about nine or ten came up to us, a conspicuous mom-boy couple on the curb. "Do you know who pulled the fire alarm?" she jeered between an awkward mix of permanent and baby teeth. 

"What?" I blinked. 

"Do you know who it was?" she repeated, eying my boy. 

I stared meaningfully at her with widened eyes. "Do you need to know?" I asked. 

This time she blinked. "No," she said, and walked away. I didn't see her again. 

Amidst the jabber and jumping jacks, someone finally made an announcement that I couldn't hear. There was general murmuring. A man near us said, "Ha! They're going to want to have that kid's fingerprints after this." Again, if I'd know who it was, he might have gotten an elbow to the solar plexus. 

It was either a good thing or a bad thing that I kept my eyes down. I don't think my son heard anything.

We fetched my son's backpack and went to the car to wait. My daughter tried to suppress tears so her makeup wouldn't run since I am always there to help her set up a costume change routine. 

She went on stage only nine minutes late, and miraculously they made up the entire delay by the time she was done. She did well setting up her own routine. Thank goodness this is all old hat. 

Meanwhile, my son and I snuggled in the front seat of the car. We texted my husband for awhile. My favorite thing my son texted was the title of a children's book we own: "It's okay to make mistakes."

Then I praise his little broken heart into confidence. 

"You know what I think is cool, buddy? You followed the directions on that fire alarm EXACTLY. Now if there is ever a real fire in a building, you will have already practiced! You'll start seeing them everywhere you go--at church, school, stores--every building except houses. And I noticed they put it right on your eye level, and you could read every single big word on it. The only words you didn't see were the little ones at the top: 'in case or fire.' That's pretty awesome that you can read words so well. If there's ever a fire, I hope you're with me so you can pull the fire alarm, because you're one of the only people I know who has ever done it before!" I went on and on. The tears dried up, leaving salty stains beneath his eyes. The pink blotches that characterize his sad face faded away. He was still shaken up, but I think he felt a little better. 

The person I appreciated the most was this mom with purple hair who stopped me as we evacuated the building. She must have stolen a glance when my son reacted to the initial blare. "Hey, just so you know," she said with a toss of purple over her shoulder, "my son did the same thing a few years ago." Then leaning towards my son, she said, "It makes for a great story later!"

It wasn't reassuring at the time. But I thought of how kind her relatable confession had been as my son and I walked toward our curbside seclusion. 

I vow that if the fire alarm is ever accidentally pulled somewhere and we are evacuated, I will dull the blades of sharp words before they can leave me. I will be the woman who stomps on insensitive jeers. I will elbow petty jokes. I will confess my own experience being the mortified mom of the bawling boy. I will look the mom in the eye and smile. 

And I will never be ashamed with my son. I will keep my eyes up and stay in plain sight, even if my outwardness belies how sick I feel. I'll deal out metaphorical stomps and elbows if I have to, even widening my eyes at rude glances, because my boy doesn't like trouble. He wants to be good and avoid reprimand. He didn't know. 

And I believe him.