It’s been two weeks since I fled the fires, and I still smell the smoke. It’s impossible, though, cause I’m not in California anymore. I’ve relocated to Brooklyn, NY.
Time is a confusing notion at the moment. The time it took me to evacuate from my home and get to my son, who was at preschool, went by in a flash. It was over 4 hours. Someone else picked him up from school for the first time in his three years of life. Our good friends and fellow parents were able to grab my son along with their son and meet at their house on the border of Santa Monica and the Palisades. They evacuated not long after we were all reunited.
I remember seeing the flames jump canyons and realizing I needed a suitcase, not just an overnight bag. I remember opening my window and feeling a whoosh of heat, the ash raining down, coughing, and my lungs aching. I remember deciding to keep my car and wait rather than ditch it and run.
When I was finally reunited with my son, he was light, sweet, and laughing. He was being three years old. The cognitive dissonance of how I was feeling and acting severed my reality. He wanted to stay and play at his friend's house, but I coaxed him into the car with a lollipop. I drove him to the hotel that I convinced my mom to get in Beverly Hills and continued to pressure her to evacuate—begging her to please move more quickly. She didn’t think there was any way the fire would reach her house. Like an amber alert on her phone, she finally got the evacuation notice. I then stopped at a toy store and an ice cream shop. The toys were for my son; the ice cream was a desperate attempt to calm my nervous system.
The sun went down not much later, and we worked to get my son asleep in the hotel. Then, my mom’s security alerts went off, one after the next. ADT and a generator gave us information we didn’t want but heard anyway: ‘Smoke detected downstairs hallway.’ ‘Glass break, gym.’ ‘Smoke detected, kitchen.’ We pulled up the security cameras and saw fire on the side of her house. The fire was taking her home, and we could do nothing.
Then, in the following days, we learned my house made it, and her house was completely gone. It was shocking that I could not inhabit my home for a year, which was a conservative estimate. It is surrounded by toxic ash. I was told that for safety, we’d want to get rid of everything cloth, and then we can remediate the home from the smoke inside and out, but insurance will likely fight me at every turn. I filed a claim two weeks ago and still haven’t heard from an adjuster.
My mom saw an Instagram reel of her house burning and the swing she updated for my son. (A broken version was already there for an earlier generation). It’s something the entire neighborhood used. We are devastated.
About two weeks after the fire, time went by in a blur. I got on an airplane and moved to Brooklyn—for a year? Forever? Till Summer? Who knows? I only know I want to breathe safe air and get my toddler back to a regular schedule. We have another week until we move into our apartment. Time still moves in odd increments. There’s so much to do; each day falls into the next, collapsing like dominos. When not looking for a pediatrician or new health insurance or filling out forms, these little memories of things we lost creep into my psyche - like our regular Saturday morning play date with Miles' first friend (and my first mom friend) or when we made pizza with the family down the street. The library of children’s books I received during my baby shower is all lost.
My general mood is sad, and I’m not sleeping well. My temper is short, my chest feels tight, and I don’t love the parent I am today. My kid is so sweet; he deserves better from me, but the best I can do is apologize and share that I’m having a hard time. I need this tidal wave to finish its spin. I’m ready for normal.
Once settled, I’ll return to my regular posts about AI and culture. Until then, I’ll rely on ChatGPT to read my insurance policy and advise me on how to make school lunch for a toddler from a hotel room.
Allowing yourself the grace to process, you are a stronger woman than I. You are a great mom, who has her son in a safe place. You are awesome!