It was a typical, boring Wednesday night. By typical, I mean that Matt and I were playing trains. By boring, again I mean that we were playing trains. No offense to Thomas and his friends, but there’s only so many games of “Make Donald Say Hi to Percy” that one can tolerate. And we’ve been playing that game every day since October.
After putting Matt to bed, I decided the house needed a good Lysol spraying. Matt had been coughing like a three pack-a-day smoker for a few days, and my nose had been running like a faucet since the morning. Certain that our house was covered in germs, I proceeded to give everything a good spraying – TV remotes, doorknobs, computer keyboards, the whole works.
Upon completion, I settled down at the computer to check in with my lovely wife when I was rudely startled by an ear piercing 85 decibel beeping from our Carbon Monoxide/Explosive Gas Alarm. The alarm had gone off once before, with a low battery warning, so I went downstairs to check, figuring this was the case again. This time, however, the unit was flashing an ominous “GAS! GAS!” With visions of our house being blown to smithereens, with me and Matt in it, I quickly called 911 and then grabbed Matt out of bed, wrapped him in a sleeping bag, and went out to sit in the car and wait for the fire department to arrive.
At this point, I was worried that our house was seconds away from exploding. Matt, on the other hand, was having the time of his life, snuggling up with the sleeping bag on the back seat. As the ambulance pulled up our hill, lights flashing, it was like Christmas morning all over again for Matt. Two firemen arrived and checked the house, and let us know it was safe to come back inside.
As I talked downstairs with the two firemen, I could hear the front door open. Matt was attempting to head outside, in three inches of snow, to go get a closer look at the ambulance. One of the firemen then stayed upstairs with Matt, as I talked to the other one downstairs. I could hear Matt telling him, “Come to my room. Look, truck rug. Truck bed” while showing off his truck-themed room. “Do you have more fire trucks?” I heard the fireman ask Matt. At this point, I could hear the clatter of trucks being pulled out of the closet. Matt was getting a chance to play fire trucks with a fireman, and he was going to make the most of it by taking out every last fire truck he owns.
Before they left, Matt got a high five from each of them, and they flashed their lights and sirens as they drove away, Matt standing wide-eyed at the front door waving goodbye. Finally, Matt went back to bed and I turned to Google to solve the mystery of the false alarm. As the firemen suspected, the Lysol I had sprayed around the house to kill our germs had triggered the Explosive Gas sensor. After reading a number of Amazon reviews, it appears this is quite the common occurrence with any kind of household cleaner, aerosol spray, or perfume. False alarms have also been triggered by another kind of “explosive gas” emitted by humans, perhaps after a large meal of spicy food at a Mexican restaurant (dogs have been known to do the same, although I don’t think Mexican food is the cause in that case). I’m sure this has Laurie wondering how I never set off the explosive gas alarm before.
For me, the night could not have been worse. I stood outside in my bed shorts in 20-degree weather, waiting for my home to explode, and now my cold is even worse. For Matt, it may have been the greatest night of his life. His hacking cough has miraculously disappeared, he wants to go sleep in the car again, and he got to play fire trucks with a real live firefighter. For a little boy obsessed with all things trucks, it doesn’t get any better than that.
