F-F-F-F-F-FIRE

I. I don't know how to say this.

Ok, I'll just say it.

I set fire to my kitchen. My beloved kitchen that I haven't used in quite some months *phew* There, I feel better for getting that out.

Last night, on Night 3 of Change the Routine So She Doesn't Notice There's No More Boob tactic, whereby a breastfeed has been replaced by a measly cup of water and a book from Daddy, was the first night I've actually been home during the process. So in an attack of the guilts, I ditched the usual work (I normally perform paid work tasks in that teensy window between dinner and after-bath time with Daddy) and decided to start a pot of water for the spaghetti. It was the least I could do.

Now, I know it's bin a while since I was all haute cuisine in the kitchen, like, but I assumed I could handle filling a stingey pot with water from the tap and sticking it on the stove to boil. Hell, I was even prepared to do the spaghetti part.

So I got out a pot. I put it in the sink, resting it on one of the LGBB's used bowls for the day while I filled it with water. Stopped the tap, stuck it on the stove, whacked on the gas. I was prepared for some crackle and sizzle as the water droplets from the sink on the underside of the pot evaporated in the heat. I heard it start to do a familiar pop and fizz as I wandered off, back to the computer and my headset.

Not more than 20 seconds later, I heard a loud POP. Not a pissy pop. A balloon-popping pop. A balloon popping in an empty corridor pop. Loud. Vigilant like you should be of coconuts, but not yet alarmed, I wandered back into the kitchen, my curiosity aroused.

Ok, flames. FLAMES. FLAAAAAAMES. Big flames. Scary fucking flames.

I have discovered that I am NOT a cool cucumber in a moment of crisis. That I would, in fact, wet my very own pants even if the bladder was not full (not that I did on this occasion, but anywho...).

What ensued for the next two minutes was me yelling out to Steve and interjecting my cries with the simple, self-explanatory (or so I thought) "Shit! SHIT!!! SHIIITTTT!!!!!" Note to self: the word "shit" does not douse flames.

In my defense, I did attempt to go near the flames under the pot. I picked it up. I faced my fear as if a hundred huntsmen were under the damn thing. When I did, a mutated purple plastic LGBB-bowl lid flopped back onto the hotplate and continued to burn unabated. That's when the "Shit"s began in full flight.

Thankfully, Steve came out, LGBB still in hand (bleary-eyed and soooo close to sleep from her bedtime book routine, oh dear), and told me that no, that glass of water I was holding was NOT a wise idea to fan the flames of a plastic fire. Once I saw him, it was as if I magically regained my composure though. Weird. I went from Damsel to Dragon.

The fire out, Steve continued with the routine for the Girl, she went off to sleep as if she were none the wiser, despite being dumped unceremoniously in her drowsy state on the couch for a few seconds while we flapped about the kitchen talking loudly. And I paced the lounge room and sobbed. What a big girls' blouse I am.

Steve came back out, by the way, and giggled - yes, giggled - that he expected to come out and literally find a pile of shit. Such were my incessant and apparently convincing exclamations of said matter.

Oh and p.s. The lid? A mangled melted piece of useless polymer chains. HEH!!! I learnt something in Chemistry! I think.... Until someone smart corrects me.