It was January 8th when everything reached peak surreal. Myself, my husband, our seven-year-old daughter Luna, another friend and her son, had fled the California wildfires in Los Angeles, and ended up in Irvine—a city about an hour away from the worst of what was unfolding.
We’d picked it at midnight the evening before, knowing evacuation from our home just minutes away from the worst of the fires in Altadena was imminent. It was a shot in the dark, somewhere to go that had a mall where we could get supplies and food for the kids, a somewhat affordable Airbnb that took pets, and most importantly was safe. But to the kids—whom we’d been trying to shield from the worst of what was happening—we’d sold it as an adventure.
We’d spent the morning by the beach, at Dana Point, and the afternoon at the mall. For dinner, we went to the Cheesecake Factory, because… well, no one was in the mood to fight the kids for anything else. Then, of course, both kids had a meltdown because the mac n cheese on the menu was “the wrong kind”. And then they spotted a ferris wheel, and begged to ride it. What other answer was there than yes? Because that’s what happens when you’re parenting through complete disaster. Even as our community was burning, even as we looked again and again at the fire maps which were like nothing we’d ever seen before, even as we had no idea whether our homes were safe, we felt the desperate and collective need to protect our children…