Maybe you’ve heard that half my state is on fire? (I know, I know, we’re all too busy to read the about page. I live in Southern California. The part that’s on fire. That one.)

We woke up Monday morning to discover that the sky had turned brown in the night. The sun glowed orange, which the kids thought was fabulous, and the air outside was not breathable, which no one thought was fabulous.

After several calls between various family members, several discussions with our midwives, and several reverse 911 calls throughout our neighborhood (that’s where emergency services calls YOU to tell you to get the heck out of your house, and do it now please), we left. The kids thought we were on a fabulous vacation, though they wondered why the adults kept watching a movie about fire on the hotel TV. (Can you tell these are children without television in their lives?)

Our neighborhood is no longer in danger and the air has cleared a bit, so we came home this afternoon.

Our house, it is stinky. Our electricity, it continues to flicker. Our neighborhood, it is sooty and ashy and generally dirty—but not too badly so. With luck, the air will be clear enough that we can maybe open our windows by the end of the day tomorrow.

And the baby can wait to be born until after that. I hope.