When my son was a wee thing, still wrapped up like a burrito, every time there was a thunderstorm, I carried him outside to the worn wooden bench perched on our front stoop, and, together, we sat and listened to the boomers.
As my burrito grew, he morphed into my l’il Monkey. Whenever we heard thunder or saw that first flick of lightning, we raced to the front door. He’d mastered deadbolts by then, and he turned the knob furiously as if the ice-cream truck were sitting in our driveway. Once outside, we piled on the old bench — my son sat on my lap, holding my hand with a combination of anticipation and fear while I counted: “One-one-thousand, -one-thousand, three-one-thousand…” And when the world shook, we laughed and he begged for another so we waited impatiently for the next thunder-clap to shake our world.
For years we watched the skies darken, the clouds quicken, felt the air grow heavy on our skin. We listened to water slap our sidewalk angrily, and we both came to see how it works: how storms can be furious and yet temporary. He learned that even the scariest storms pass.
I know children who are terrified of thunder and lightning – kids who put their hands over their ears and cry or hide, but my son was raised up on late May storms: flashes of light and all that racket.
Maybe it’s because we imagined G-d taking a shower.
{The way my Monkey was starting to take showers.}
Maybe it’s because we imagined G-d needed to fill up the oceans.
{The way my Monkey was starting to have responsibilities.}
Maybe it’s because he imagined G-d stomping around looking for something He had misplaced.
{The way Monkey misplaced things and got all stompy and frustrated.}
Maybe it’s because he liked talking about G-d and trying to relate to Him.
“G-d makes rain. And rain makes the world grow, Mommy!” l’il Monkey told me as he stared at the yellow lilies, thirsty for a drink.
What I didn’t realize at the time was that with each summer storm, my summer-son was getting “growed up” too.
One May, I saw my son needed a new raincoat and boots for puddle stomping.
“I don’t need a coat. Or boots,” Monkey said as a matter-of-fact.
And he ran out into the downpour.
Unprotected.
Now I’m not saying it’s smart to go outside and run around on a lawn during an electrical storm, I’m just saying that we did. Okay?
We made up goofy dances, sang ridiculous songs, and chased each other around the yard in our bare feet until we were mud-spattered and drenched.
In no time at all, my little burrito will have graduated high school and turn 18.
We live in an apartment with a less inviting front stoop, so we don’t do the thunderstorm thing anymore.
He doesn’t need require as much from me: a meal, a bed, a place to plug in his computer and charge his phone.
Soon, he won’t even need me to provide these things.
While natural, these changes come at me, pelt me, like hard rain on my skin.
One day, when I am an old woman and I hear the distant clatter of thunder, I will remember tiny yellow rain coats and tiny yellow rain-boots. I may not remember much else, but I will remember those little moments — perhaps as one long blurry moment — when the world turned chocolate pudding and everything was positively puddle wonderful.
What do you remember about thunderstorms? What little moments do you cherish?
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