Last night, we had a (characteristically loud) March thunderstorm. I love a good rainfall. I love the rumbling thunder. It makes for good sleeping weather. When The Boy was tiny, I mean barely-standing-on-his-own-two-feet tiny, he would pull himself up to the storm door on our porch and just watch.
We haven't had too many gully-washers in the last few months. This calm weather has coincided with The Baby's burgeoning verbal skills and, before now, she's never been able to say how she feels about the thunder.
But, oh, she said it last night.
The line of storms came through right at bedtime, which was super convenient. Between Jeremy and I, we put the girls back in their beds at least eleven times. While The Boy was snoring away in his bed, The Girl was howling in terror from hers, which would only key up The Baby even more.
I tried every Good Mother trick I could conjure. I sang soothing songs while I brushed her hair. I whispered to her that she was safe and warm and the thunder was just a noise high up in the sky. We prayed together, and I managed not to laugh when she demanded,"God, go away the funder now!" I told her that the thunder was just saying goodnight.
"Boom, boom, goodnight, Bunny. Boom boom, sweet dreams, Bunny. Boom boom, I love you, Bunny."
And every time I thought my Superior Mothering Tactics were working, that she was finally still and quiet enough for me to kiss goodnight, she'd start wailing again.
Eventually, my patience and my skill set ran out. As did Jeremy's. Around 11:15, after a total of ten quiet minutes alone, The Baby marched into our room carrying her Things- two pacies, a Lovey, a bunny, and a blanket. "I need a holding." This is what my Baby does- she wears us down to nothingness, then attacks us with her cute. She has the sweetest face and the best snuggles. She is the indulged baby-of-three. She stood at the peak of our mountain of rules ("NO SLEEPING IN OUR BED"), triumphant.
As I held her little balled up two-year-old fist in my hand, as she patted my face, as I rubbed feet with my husband from the other side of the bed, I thought of storms and of sweetness.
Almost always, the two are intertwined.
Something scary immediately precedes something wonderful.
The dark things are so often chased away by light.
In the middle of a storm, there is a sweetness in safety.
And then, after hours of anguish, The Baby slept. Sweetly in the storm.