I Tested Our Family's Emergency Plan Last Weekend — Here's Every Embarrassing Thing That Went Wrong

Last updated: March 2026

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I woke everybody up at 6:47 on a Saturday morning.

Not an alarm. Not a fire drill siren. Just me, standing in the hallway in my bathrobe, banging on a pot with a wooden spoon and yelling "Emergency! We need to go! Everybody up!" like some kind of suburban Paul Revere.

My 8-year-old, Eli, appeared in his doorway looking at me like I'd completely lost it. My 5-year-old, Nora, started crying. The dog — a Golden Retriever named Biscuit who is truly useless in any crisis — immediately ran downstairs and threw up on the kitchen rug. My husband, Matt, rolled over and said, and I quote, "Claire, it is Saturday."

I know. I know it's Saturday. That was the point.

Here's the thing I'd been avoiding for months. I have a binder. I have checklists. I have a 72-hour kit in the hall closet and go-bags for the kids. I have a whole family communication plan printed, laminated, and stuck to the inside of the pantry door. On paper, we are prepared. I genuinely believed that.

But I had never actually tested any of it. Not once. And if you're being honest with yourself, you probably haven't either.

So last Saturday, I decided we were going to run the plan. Not a "let's calmly walk through the steps while everyone is fully awake and cooperative" kind of run-through. A real one. Simulated power outage, grab your bags, meet at the rally point, the whole thing.

It took us twenty-three minutes to get out the front door. Twenty-three minutes. Our plan says fifteen.

And that was just the beginning of what went wrong.

What Actually Worked

I want to start here because it wasn't all a disaster. Some things held up, and I think it's worth knowing what those were.

The rally point worked. We'd picked the big oak tree at the end of the driveway — visible, obvious, hard to argue about. Everyone knew where it was. Even Nora, through tears, said "I know, I know, the tree." That felt good. Pick a spot your kids can find half-asleep and you're ahead of most families.

The binder was worth its weight. When I said "grab the emergency binder," Matt actually knew where it was and brought it. Insurance info, medication list, emergency contacts, copies of IDs — all in one place, all in a waterproof sleeve. I've heard people say a document binder is overkill. It isn't. In the chaos of that morning, it was one of the only things that went smoothly.

Matt's car kit was solid. He's the skeptic in this house — he'd roll his eyes when I'd mention "rotating supplies" — but he quietly keeps water, a blanket, jumper cables, and a flashlight in his truck. When we got to the car and I asked "what do we have in here?" he rattled off every item. I didn't even know about the Clif bars in the center console. So apparently he listens more than he lets on.

The kids knew the basics. They knew to put on shoes. They knew to grab their bags (more on that in a second). They knew not to open the fridge. We'd talked about all of this at dinner one night and I honestly wasn't sure any of it stuck. It did. Kids absorb more than you think — they just need the information delivered once, clearly, when they're not overwhelmed.

What Failed Spectacularly

Okay. Here's where it gets humbling.

Nora's go-bag was at a sleepover. My 7-year-old had taken her little backpack — the one I had carefully packed with a flashlight, snacks, a water bottle, her laminated contact card, a small stuffed rabbit — to her friend Macy's house for a sleepover on Friday night. It was still there. Sitting on Macy's bedroom floor with a change of clothes stuffed in it and the emergency supplies dumped out on Macy's bed, probably. So in a real emergency, Nora would have had nothing. Her entire personal kit, just gone. I hadn't thought about that at all. I'd spent an hour assembling that bag and never once considered that my kindergartner might use it as weekend luggage.

Every single flashlight was dead. Every. Single. One. I keep three flashlights — one in the kitchen junk drawer, one in the hall closet with the kit, one in our bedroom nightstand. Dead, dead, dead. The kitchen one was missing batteries entirely because — and I am not proud of this — I stole them for the TV remote sometime in January and never replaced them. The hall closet flashlight had batteries in it, but they were corroded. And the bedroom one turned on for about four seconds, flickered, and quit.

This is the woman who writes about emergency preparedness, everyone. Couldn't find a working flashlight in her own house.

The water storage situation was a mess. I have two five-gallon jugs of stored water in the garage. Had. Past tense. One of them had developed a slow leak that I hadn't noticed, and there was a puddle on the garage floor that had been there long enough to leave a stain. The other one was fine, but when I asked Matt to grab it, Biscuit — who was already on edge from the pot-banging incident — knocked it over trying to follow Matt through the garage door. So now we had one compromised jug, one jug on its side on the garage floor, and a very wet, very anxious dog.

We still had the cases of bottled water in the pantry. But my five-gallon "deep supply" was effectively useless. I'd been counting on those jugs in my head for months without checking them.

I couldn't find the first aid kit in the dark. Part of the drill was simulating a power outage, so we kept the lights off. I know where our first aid kit is. I could tell you right now — it's in the hall closet, top shelf, left side. Except in the dark, at 6:50 in the morning, with Nora crying and Biscuit whining and Matt asking "is this really necessary," I pulled down a box of old Halloween costumes, a bag of reusable grocery bags, and what turned out to be a broken humidifier before I found it. The closet shelf had become a dumping ground. I'd put the kit there six months ago and the closet had just... absorbed it.

Nobody could remember the out-of-state contact. Our emergency plan says to call Matt's brother in Colorado if we can't reach each other locally. It's printed on the laminated card in the pantry. But when I quizzed the kids — "if you can't find Mom or Dad, who do you call?" — Eli said Grandma (who lives twelve minutes away, which is great but doesn't help if local lines are jammed) and Nora said "911." Fair enough, she's five. But even Matt couldn't remember his brother's phone number without his phone. And if the phone is dead? That's a problem.

The car was on a quarter tank of gas. I always say keep your tank at least half full. Always. Mine was at a quarter. Matt's truck was better — about three-quarters — but my car, the one I would instinctively grab in an emergency because the car seats are in it, would have gotten us maybe 60 miles.

What We Changed After

Here's where I stopped feeling embarrassed and started feeling grateful. Because every single failure on that list? Fixable. Cheaply, quickly, and before it ever actually mattered. That's the whole point of testing.

We bought real flashlights and committed to a battery system. I got three Black Diamond Spot 400 Headlamps — one for the kit, one for the bedroom, one for the kitchen. Headlamps, not flashlights, because you need your hands free and I learned that the hard way in a dark closet. And I bought a box of Energizer Lithium AA Batteries and put four in a labeled Ziploc bag next to each headlamp. Lithium batteries last up to twenty years in storage and don't corrode. No more stealing them for the remote. I bought separate batteries for the remote like a responsible adult.

Nora gets a house bag and a travel bag. The go-bag stays home. Period. She has a separate little backpack for sleepovers. The emergency bag lives on its hook in the closet and does not leave. I put a tag on it that says "EMERGENCY - DO NOT MOVE" in Sharpie. She thinks it's a little dramatic. She's not wrong.

I reorganized the hall closet. The kit is now on the floor of the closet, not the top shelf. It's in a clear bin so I can see it. Nothing goes in front of it. The Halloween costumes went to the basement. This took me fifteen minutes and I should have done it a year ago.

We upgraded water storage. I replaced the leaking jug with WaterBrick Stackable Water Containers. They're rigid, they're BPA-free, they stack neatly, and they don't develop mystery leaks in the garage. I can actually see the water level through the side. They cost more than a cheap jug from the hardware store, and they are worth every penny.

Contact cards go in wallets now. I printed wallet-sized cards with Uncle Kevin's number, our home address, our rally point, and a one-line message: "If you find this child, please call this number." Each kid has one in their school bag and one in their emergency bag. Matt has one in his wallet. I have one in mine. No memorization required.

I keep the tank above half. I set a rule: when the needle hits half, I fill up. Not when it's convenient. Not on the way to something. When it hits half. It's a small habit and it has already paid for itself in peace of mind.

And yeah — I checked the first aid kit while I was at it. Expired children's Tylenol. A single adhesive bandage, kid-size. We were not going to be treating anything with that kit. I restocked it properly and added a note on the outside with the date, so I know exactly when to check it again.

Your Turn

I'm not going to pretend that morning was fun. Matt was annoyed. Nora was upset until I made pancakes (bribery works, I don't apologize for it). Eli actually got into it by the end — he wants to do it again next month, which frankly makes me a little nervous about what he's hoping will go wrong.

But here's what I keep thinking about. If I hadn't tested that plan, I would have gone on believing we were ready. I would have kept telling myself the flashlights worked, the water was fine, the closet was organized. And the first time it actually mattered — a storm, an outage, something worse — every one of those failures would have hit us at the worst possible moment.

I keep coming back to that line in Proverbs — the wise woman builds her house. I think she also checks her flashlight batteries.

So here is my challenge to you, and I mean this weekend, not "sometime." Pick a Saturday morning. Tell your family you're going to practice the plan. You don't have to bang a pot at 6:47 AM (though I do recommend it for the entertainment value alone). Just walk through it. Time it. See what's missing, what's expired, what's buried under Halloween costumes.

You'll find things that are broken. That is the point. Better to find them now, when finding them just means a trip to the store and a slightly annoyed husband, than to find them when your family is actually counting on you.

And when you do test it? I'd genuinely love to hear how it went. The good, the bad, and the embarrassing. Because I promise you — whatever went wrong at your house, I've already done something worse.

Frequently Asked Questions

How often should you test your family emergency plan?

Test your family emergency plan at least twice a year — once as a tabletop walkthrough where you talk through each step, and once as a live drill where you actually grab bags, meet at your rally point, and time the process. Many families anchor these to daylight saving time changes or school-year milestones so they don't forget. After any major life change (new house, new baby, new school), run an additional test since your logistics have shifted.

What should a family emergency plan include?

A family emergency plan should cover six things: a rally point everyone can find (a visible, specific spot near your home), an out-of-state emergency contact with the number memorized or on wallet cards, a communication plan for when cell service is unreliable, the location of your emergency kit and go-bags, an evacuation route with at least one alternate, and assigned responsibilities for each family member (who grabs the binder, who grabs the pet, who helps the youngest). Keep it to one printed page and review it at dinner once a quarter.

What are the most common emergency plan failures?

The failures that come up most often in real drills are dead batteries in flashlights and radios, expired medications and food in kits, family members not knowing the rally point or emergency contact, go-bags that have been moved or emptied, vehicles with low fuel, and documents that are outdated or inaccessible. The single biggest failure is simply never testing the plan at all — most families discover problems only when a real emergency forces the issue, which is exactly when you can least afford surprises.

At what age can kids participate in emergency drills?

Children as young as four or five can learn a rally point, practice putting on shoes quickly, and understand "we grab our bags and go to the tree." By age seven, most kids can carry their own go-bag, know an emergency contact by name, and follow multi-step instructions during a drill. By ten, they can take on a real role — grabbing the pet, helping a younger sibling, or checking that doors are locked. The key is making drills feel routine rather than scary. Keep your voice calm, debrief afterward with something positive (pancakes help), and praise what they did right before discussing what to improve.

Peace of mind is homemade.

— Claire