The rains came back this weekend—I wish they’d give us time to miss them— and by Sunday evening, the stormwater drains on our street couldn’t cope any more. A few of them even sent up distress geysers, to the awed delight of the neighborhood kids.
At least six cars stalled in front of our house and my husband had a great time offering advice from our front porch about how to get through the rapids without sucking water up their tailpipes and, inevitably, the phone numbers of tow trucks. Eventually, he waded barefoot across the street to consult with the neighbors, taking Janie with him without mentioning it to me.*
In my defense, I was too busy looking around for Brad Pitt, Craig Sheffer, and Robert Redford to notice they’d gone—I figured if a river was gonna run through it, there should be some compensation.
Sunny, who had been left behind once again because of blatant size discrimination, promptly ratted them out and left button noseprints all over the windows, while giving running reports on her father and sister—“They’re still there!”— and also on the impressive lake forming at the bottom of the slope behind our house—“Can we have a pet duck, now, Mommy?”**
By Monday, everything had drained enough for Sunny to go rain-puddling in the late afternoon with her sister without adults worrying about undertow or sewer mutants climbing out for a breath of air. Dry feet, though, were another matter—at one point, Jane took off a rain boot and upended half a gallon of dubious-colored water onto our driveway. Her sister, or I’m told, tap-danced in it—squish-danced seems more likely.***
Eventually, my husband hauled them in for decontamination^ and we all had barbecue—from our favorite smokehouse restaurant, since it had started raining again.
My husband, it should be noted, is my hero.
But we never lost power and my MIL’s lower-level apartment—ie, our basement—was never at risk, and none of the kids are itchy around the calves this morning. And I had naps and a pile of smoked chicken. Sure, getting to work was tricky this morning—most of the towns between the kids’ school and the library were preemptively closed in case the river decides to go exploring again and not many detour signs were up—but it was more of an adventure than a cause for Road Rage.
So it was a good weekend, despite the weather—I can almost ignore this week’s forecast and the Armageddon-expression the sky is currently wearing.
Almost.
How’s the weather over there?
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*This was a wise move on both their parts, since the idea of touching floodwater gives me the scrub-my-skin-off-squickies, but I can usually cope with what’s done is done when it comes to the rest of the family—before scrubbing off their skin.
** Stupid livestock ordinance.
***Or so I’m told; I’d snuck off to have a nap at that point. I’d like to say it was so my hydrogermaphobia wouldn’t ruin the kids’ fun, but I’m not that altruistic.
^Thus ending the nap. Why is it that kids who are incapable of passing by a shallow indent filled with liquid filth are so loudly allergic to clear water produced in a relatively clean bathroom? And why does my husband seem to take such glee in using them as alarm clocks after his wife has only had her head down for a measly two hours or so? Yeah, yeah, rhetorical, never mind.
Earful of Cider 