I don't get to stop serving snacks or breaking up sibling fights during a disaster. This is how we're surviving the stress of the LA fires.
Courtesy of Lauren Quinn
- My family lives in Northeast LA, just outside of the evacuation zones for the raging LA fires.
- Our neighborhood is filled with smoke and everything is covered with ash. Schools are closed.
- Parents don't get to stop parenting during a disaster, but we're doing what we can to survive.
It was raining ash when I went to pick my daughter up from school on Wednesday.
We awoke that morning to the smell of smoke seeping in through the cracks under the door and the roar of the Santa Anas as they rattled the trees outside. My family lives in Northeast Los Angeles, in the direct smoke path of the Eaton Fire, burning through the Pasadena/Altadena area.
My husband and I are both native Californians; we know what to do in these situations. I got out our pack of kid-sized KN95s, while my husband pulled our air purifier out of the laundry room. We briefly discussed the safety of our kids' schools. My five-year-old daughter's school, with its new air filtration system installed during the pandemic, seemed safe, my two-year-old son's home daycare located closer to the fire less so.
Yet as I pulled up to my daughter's school, the air choked us and soot was swirling, I was unsure whether I was making the right decision. I ultimately dropped her off to spend the day at school with her friends.
Back at home, I watched the air quality index tick up — 151, 274, 337, 438 — and I grew nervous. I was putting my shoes back on when I got the alert that her school was closing, just an hour after the school day had begun.
As I stood in the line of anxious parents waiting to sign out their kids, ash was floating through the air landing on our heads, shoulders, and the tops of our cars. It looked like the snow in the Christmas snow globes we've just packed away. Helicopters panted in the grey sky. Behind the thick layer of smoke, an orange ball of sun blazed, casting everything in an eerie hue.
So far, we've been lucky
Perched on a steep hillside below Mount Washington, our home wasn't in immediate danger on Wednesday. Yet the brush that surrounds us is as dry as a tinderbox. Usually in January, the hillside is a verdant green, but it hasn't rained any significant amount since May. The grasses are parched and brown. Skinny coyotes now prowl the fence around our property, sniffing and desperate. As the Santa Anas rage and new blazes pop up throughout the day, I know it would only take a single ember to ignite it all.
Life goes on, no matter what is happening outside
I packed an emergency bag with diapers, birth certificates, Cheerios, and a hand-painted baby book my mother made, and placed it by the door. Then I fixed the kids a snack. Life goes on.
Parenting through disaster or tragedy includes a mundanity that serves as both a respite and an unbearable tedium: there are still meals to be cooked, bedtime stories to be read, toys to be squabbled over.
I am supposed to be working from home. But as morning turns to afternoon, the kids become as restless as the winds outside. We try an art project, then my son scribbles on the coffee table.
My daughter whines for TV and I relent, Ms. Rachel and Elmo getting me through yet another challenging parenting moment. I tell myself it's good that my kids are whining; it means they're not scared.
It's been hard to focus
My mother-in-law came to watch the kids and I retreated to a back room, where I tried to work. But the Watch Duty App keept pinging with new evacuation orders, new burns.
I picked up my phone and descend into doomscrolling, flipping through a succession of heartbreaking posts: "We've lost everything," "Our house is gone," "We are in shock."
GoFundMe links appear and multiply. The Eaton Fire has consumed most of nearby Altadena, an affordable mountain town with a historic black community, where many working and middle-class families purchase their first homes. Due to recent policy changes in the state, many were unable to purchase fire insurance. It's hard to not feel helpless and overwhelmed by the scale of it all. I click to donate.
We muddled through the afternoon, reading books and building forts. I count the hours until bedtime.
That night, the Watch Duty app continues to ping, vegetation fires that quickly get named: Sunset, Kenneth, Creek. Friends and relatives text, asking if we're okay. Totally safe, I reassure them all. I am aware that I am also reassuring myself.
My local mom group fills with requests for items people fled without: a breastfeeding pillow, a sound machine, children's clothing in all sizes. People coordinate pick-ups and drop-offs, and offer guest rooms to displaced families. "Look for the helpers," Mister Rogers famously said. "You will always find people who are helping." I resolve to tell my kids about this tomorrow.
I went to sleep nervous, leaving my ringer on for evacuation alerts. Then I woke up every hour or so to check my phone, but no fires drew near.
We don't know what's next
Schools are closed again. The winds have died down and you can almost see some blue sky behind the haze of smoke. But the blazes are still burning, an there's still an encroaching ring of fire around the city. With little to none of the fires contained, it will be days before the air quality is breathable, longer until the ash and soot are cleaned from the playgrounds. Friend after friend reports leaving town.
On our block's text thread, our neighbors with children are all debating the same thing: do we leave now for better air, or hunker down and shelter in place? We consider the expense, my husband's PTO, and the hassle of having the kids away from their comforts and cramped in a hotel room. There is no right answer.
My kids are just grasping the scope of the situation
Courtesy of Lauren Quinn
When morning comes my son tries to put on his boots, then flops himself on the floor and screams when I tell him he can't go outside. "It's not safe," I tell him. Our play structure is covered in black soot and grey pieces of ash, the sun is still orange.
I tell my kids that even though it's a bummer that we're stuck inside, we're incredibly lucky. "Some people have lost their houses, and everything inside."
My daughter's eyes widen. "Even their toys?" she asks. I nod. "Even their toys."
We look at some pictures of the wreckage online together. I don't know if I should be shielding them or being honest. I remember to tell them about all the people helping each other, the firefighters and animal rescuers, and the moms gathering clothes and toys for those who need them.
"We're very lucky," I tell them. "And totally safe. As long as we stay inside."
Privately, I pray it will stay that way.
