puddled water

It rains pretty spontaneously here. (This may be due, in part, to the fact that I never check the weather or that I moved here from a desert.)

I've been caught in sudden downpours on multiple occasions.
I've loved it each time.
It reminds me of when I was younger and my friends and I would go puddle stomping during the warm summer rains. We didn't care about lightening, except to count the seconds between the night-severing flash and the clap of thunder that always followed. 1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . .. Three miles away. The best storms, the ones that left me with every bit of clothing clinging to my body and my sodden hair stuck to my neck for once in the humid climate, usually resulted in the power going out. It didn't matter. Our weak window unit ac was no match for the sticky moisture that masqueraded as air. The only difference was that mom wouldn't let us go into the fridge. "The food will spoil." So we'd turn on flashlights and light candles and read or play games, missing television, although now I'm glad it was gone those few nights. Falling asleep, somewhat restlessly to the sound of cars, ambulances, firetrucks rushing by outside our window, creating waves of water from the lakes of puddles.

It's rained yesterday. I heard a police car or maybe an ambulance and the swish splash shhh of puddled water.

mothers

My mom is an amazing woman. She raised my brothers and sisters and I mostly on her own. She is so supportive and encouraging and loving. I get my sense of humor from her, we both crack ourselves up more often than others.
One of her favorite stories to tell about me is when I said my first sentence.

I was nine months old. My older brother, Christian had some crackers. I said, "I want some too."
My mother was holding me at the time and quickly put me down and walked across the room and then realized that I was between her and the exit. She said that she thought I was possessed because she never had heard of a child speaking in complete sentences so young. (She watched a lot of X-Files in those days.)
After that first sentence I just kept talking. Apparently there were quite a few babysitters who, although warned, had their hair standing on end after a night with me yapping away. And because I was so vocal lots of people thought I was older than I really was and told my mom that she shouldn't carry me around so much, to just let me walk; but I was talking for a while before I took my first steps. I don't remember these occasions myself, but I've heard the stories dozens of times.
That's what moms do. They tell you how you were, what you can be and they save piles of scribbles that you lovingly drew for them.

Thank you Mom. And thank you Chris.