I've spent the last few days reading and watching stories about the Saturday night fire in a York city home that killed two children -- Jordyn Ehrmann, 5, and Kyler Moyer, 2 -- and their great-grandmother, Nancy Hull.
I've read that the volunteer firefighter who desperately tried to save them and was burned in the process said he can't sleep because, in his head, he keeps hearing the children screaming.
And I've cried. More than once.
I can't help but picture Sam in that situation. Stuck in a room filled with fire and smoke, screaming, crying for me to help her. It literally makes me sick to my stomach.
I became an aunt when I was only 8 years old, and I've got nine nieces and nephews. Before I had Sam, I remember reading -- and writing -- such stories, and yes, they made me terribly sad. Especially if I interviewed families who had lost loved ones, I often couldn't put it out of my mind for days. And I remember people telling me, "It's different once you have kids of your own."
I never scoffed at that. I believed them. I just didn't realize how true it was.
Abductions. Fires. Molestations. Murders. Neglect. Tortures. It amazes me every day how many horrors can happen to children. How do I keep Sam safe? How do I teach her how to protect herself without scaring her?
In this case, I talked to her about firefighters (she already waves to our local firefighters and their fire trucks when we go past the station house in our town) and what they do. We talked about how firefighters save people and how, if there's a fire, Sam should never, ever hide if a firefighter comes to rescue her. I did a double walk-through of our house checking for matches within Sam's reach. I refreshed my own memory on where we keep our fire extinguishers, and I checked the batteries in our smoke alarms, even though I know my husband does that regularly.
And then I hugged and kissed and held Sam until she told me to stop it and pushed me away.
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