Trauma on 7

It was a normal day. The Girl went to school, I wrote something and was so tired I gave in and took a nap, then dusted the living room while gabbing to my friend Susan for an hour about swine flu vaccinations, husbands' work, the stupid little bimbo-in-training trying to start an exclusive clique in the second grade at our daughters' school. I contemplated an afternoon gin and tonic but decided that would be a good start down a slippery slope. Normal stuff. I picked up our G's (they have the same name and oddly similar personalities, as do Susan and I. Love her. Wish she would drink with me) from school and headed with my G to meet a potential new flute teacher.
I had to stop for gas. The tank meter stood at a half, and that just isn't good enough for the Girl. She insists the tank be full at all times. One thing about my daughter: she's observant. Another thing about her: she's paranoid. She goes 'worst case scenario' in her head for any given situation. So, we stopped at a station/convenience store. I got the gas started, asked her if she wanted to come into the store with me to get a drink. I gathered my wallet and keys, noticed that a sheriff had pulled into the pumps behind us, was grateful it wasn't Friday night. (Me and my girls, New Moon private screening, yeah baby).
Heard the pump auto-feed kick off as we were about to head into the store, and decided to just get that wrapped up before leaving the car. G has never actually seen the process of gassing up a vehicle. She's always inside the car. When she was a baby, I was so paranoid about the whole "this thing could blow at any time' 6 o'clock news feature, I wouldn't get gas if I had her with me. I, despite what snopes.com says, won't use my cell phone at a pump and make sure I shock myself on the car frame before touching the gas pump. I'm careful, I think.
"How do you get that out?" asks the Girl, grasping the pump handle and peering at the hole in the car where the gas goes. She is almost exactly the same height as it is. I put my hand over hers and we pull it out of the car, just like I have done a thousand times. A thousand times I've pulled that fucking thing out, turned around and seated it in its little holster, pushed the three buttons it takes to get my receipt, and gone on my merry way.

So imagine my shock and awe when about a half-gallon of gasoline spurts out of the tank and nozzle. And hits my baby square, soaking her face, hair, shirt, and ohmygod, her eyes.

Thanks to Karma or God or Luck or Whatever, the Sheriff was still there. And now he was chatting with a guy in a SLFD sweatshirt. I yelled for help, and the sweatshirt guy turned out to be an off-duty firefighter/EMT. He very calmly took G in his arms and propelled her toward the station's water hose on the building. She's screaming, I'm freaking inside but trying to stay calm to not further traumatize my daughter, and he got her to lie down on the sidewalk and hosed her off. It's about 50 degrees today, and after a minute or two, she just couldn't take the cold water on her head and face anymore. The sheriff wrapped her in a blanket he had in his patrol car, and I tried to flap away the useless cashier who wanted me to sign a waiver. We huddled on the sidewalk, soaked and crying while the wonderful EMT made sure her eyes were okay before he sent us home with orders for a shower and to call the ER if her eyes started to burn. But, he said, she looked fine.
I think I asked him his name. I think it was Jim. Jim rocks.

So, a shower (her) and a gin and tonic (me) later, we're okay. She's downstairs playing with her other best friend, a little upset that she'll have to have another shower later and have her hair washed with lemon juice to get the rest of the smell out. Shampoo just didn't cut it. I told her it would make her more blonde, and she seemed a bit more receptive. She absolutely and unequivocally will NOT ever put gas in the car again, and doesn't want me to do it either. This little trauma on pump 7 didn't help her inborn sense of paranoia, at all.

I was really tired this morning. Now, not so much. It could have been so much worse; it was just gas on her, after all.
I don't want to think about the 'worse'.
I don't want to think about all the moms who have witnessed and lived through the 'worse'.
I'm pretty sure I'm going to let her sleep with us tonight, and I will be tired at work tomorrow and it will be okay.
Because she's okay. And this was pretty bad, but not too bad. And it could have been worse.