The World is a Safe Place?

When Rose and I had the conversation about calling 911 the other day, it naturally led to the disasters-and-how-to-handle-them discussion.

"If there's a fire, I'll run to the living room and call 911," said Rose.

"No, if there's a fire, run out of the house. A neighbor can call 911," I said.

"Do fires happen very often? Do people's houses burn down?"

"No, not very often. I don't know many people whose houses burned down." Which is true. I don't know many folks who have had to deal with that. Except it happened to me.

* * * * * * *

I didn't have the easiest childhood but I didn't have the worst, either. Let's just say it was different. We moved many times but not because my dad was in the military. He was a struggling (read: starving) artist and it seemed like the grass was always greener somewhere else. We moved across town, across the country, to another country, and then back, and had adventures along the way. I'm both grateful for those experiences and a little scarred by them too. So I often wonder how to handle these kind of discussions. I mean, I want to reassure her and still be honest. Someday I will tell her about the time my house burned down or the time the tornado destroyed my neighborhood or the time the floodwaters rose chest-deep in our basement garage. All those things--and a lot more--happened but I'm ok and I want her to know it.

But she's five and I'd like her to believe the world is a safe place just a little while longer. Because most of the time it is.