Dear J,

Last night you were deep asleep in your papa’s arms when the fire alarm started blaring. You opened your eyes wide. I went over to take a look and noticed that it was the carbon monoxide alarm that was going off.

To tell you the truth, we didn’t know exactly what to do. We knew carbon monoxide was super dangerous and also invisible and odorless. All I could think about was keeping you safe. So I wrapped you up in a thick blanket and sat outside in the cold night air. You rested your head on my chest. Your papa called the fire department. We had to.

In 60 seconds they were driving up and you were looking at a fire truck for the first time. I watched your papa lead them into our house. Soon they told us it was safe and that the detector probably had an issue. You watched them, these strange faces in blinking lights in the middle of the night.

Then one of the firemen asked me where you slept and used his carbon monoxide reader to show me that the level was a blessed 0. He looked at you, still bundled in my arms, and said “I’m a parent. I know how it is.”

There is so much I cannot protect you from, J. The world became terrifying when you entered it — the corner of our heavy wooden table, the steps, the concrete stoop, the driver in the other car, even small harmless things like edges and water and specks of dirt in the carpet. But here was one thing we could protect you from and there were good kind people who helped us.

And the whole time you were just curious, watching and waiting and listening and even smiling a little. I won’t be able to keep myself from trying to protect you from the world and its dangers, but I’ll try to also protect this quiet wonder of yours, staring at the fire truck like a strange new curiosity in the middle of a cold March night.

Z