Fireboy

The mania surrounding firetrucks is . . . predictable.

“Right on target!,” our neighbors claim when the 2 year old boy runs up to them and stops, breathless, trying to get something obviously important out of his mouth. Fire . . .TRUH!

Predictable or not, some of the clamor associated with this passion fills me with delight. Sometimes, Henry makes a list of fire-related objects. Fire TRUH! Fire HOUSE! Fire HAT! Fire WOOF. (dalmation). Fire DADDY! (Those are the guys who actually ride around on the trucks.)

And lately, since he has started a pre-school dizzyingly full of other little boys, an experience on which I will write more on shortly, Fire BOYS!

Yesterday, we parked the car in front of a BMW that had flashing lights. And then I realized that it was smoking. First just a little, and then more and more smoke pouring out from under the hood. No one was inside of it. I moved our car, looked for the owner of the beamer, and then finally called 911.

We sat outside and waited.

I started thinking about how, on the street where we live, we sometimes walk by a duo of cops, a man and a woman. Henry calls them the policedaddy and the policemom-mom.

While we waited for the firetrucks to arrive, I asked whether there could also be firemom-moms.”Sure!,” he replied, using an expression he debuted this week.

The firetrucks came — two of them, both full of daddies. They assessed the smoking BMW and determined that it wasn’t about to blow up, and then rode away immediately.

Henry and I went back inside and as I got him ready for his nap, he asked me for some firemilk.

Wait, could I be a firemom-mom?

His dedication and attention to public service and public servants may wane. In the meantime, he goes to sleep with a plastic firehat in his crib and a police car where he can see it as soon as he opens his eyes.