This morning I woke up to a nice gentle thunderstorm (if thunderstorms can be called gentle). There were no loud thunder boomers- just some flashes of lightning and a nice hard rain. We needed the rain all summer. Though it’s a little late we welcome it none the less. I have always loved a nice thunderstorm. When I was a girl I would sit out in the breezeway of my parent’s house and watch the lightning just like I was watching fireworks. “oooh look at that one!” I would say when a nice one would reach it’s jagged limbs to the ground. I haven’t changed much. I still sit out and watch the storms. But now I do it under my covered deck on the swing with my children.
My children have inherited my love of the rain. When they were younger they used to wait for the “special rain”. This was the rain that usually only came once a year or so. The kind of rain that was a nice soaking rain but not a pounding rain. The kind of rain that was accompanied by sunshine making the raindrops sparkle. When it would start to rain my boys would ask “is this the special rain mama?”. No, I would answer. And they would wait patiently for the next one. After careful observation of each rainfall when I would finally pronounce that this time it was indeed the special rain they would strip down to their Barney underoos and run around outside slipping on the wet grass and raising their faces with open mouths to catch the rain on their tongues. I miss seeing their little wet bodies dancing in the rain. I miss their giggles when they’d slip and fall on their bottoms. And I miss the towel hugs I would give them when they’d finally come inside. My children are growing up. I know they won’t be stripping down to their underwear anymore to dance in the rain, but I hope someday when their children ask “is this the special rain daddy?” they will look at the sky carefully, pronounce that it was a very special rain and grab a towel to hug them with when they come back in.