We found ourselves with a sweet spot in a recent summer storm. Most storms during the warm months in North Carolina are accompanied by thunder and lighting that aren’t safe for puddle stomping and rain dancing. Last Friday, as the first tropical weather of the season rolled through Raleigh, the kids began to go stir crazy from being cooped up indoors.
I stood on the front porch watching the rain fall. The air was warm and the falling rain was light. Across the street, the ditches that run the length of our neighborhood park were ankle deep with water. I called the kids outside to join me and we pulled on our rain boots.
They held hands as we crossed the street, still a little unsure of what we were going to do. I walked them to the edge of the pooled water and smiled at them. They both turned loose, splashing water in every direction. Legs kicking, arms flailing, the sound of laughter bouncing between the trees. I love that the language of childhood requires no direction.
At one point, I found Everly with her head back, attempting to catch rain drops on her tongue. Arlo sloshed over to me a time or two and I helped empty the water from his boots before he ran back to joyfully fill them again. They collected fallen magnolia leaves and set them to sail like little boats in the moving water.
They jumped and splashed until they were well soaked. Eventually, Brent met us at the door with towels as we dropped their drenched clothing into a pile on the porch.
I’m usually not the biggest fan of wet weather. I much prefer sunshine and dry ground. But everything in my life takes on new meaning when translated through the experiences of my children. How precious the days, when even a slow, steady rain becomes a playground.