Here in the middle west, storm season is approaching. Not that, frankly, it ever isn’t storm season in the middle. We just change the type of storms we are referring to. The approaching storm season I am referring to on this fine, cold afternoon is tornado season.
I can tell you I never, ever, in a million billion zillion years thought I would look forward to tornado season, but here we are. This crappy winter has me questioning my very essence.
Perhaps when my brain defrosts I will have other thoughts.
So when The Kidling mentioned tornadoes the other day and suggested that we don’t need to worry about tornadoes here in the middle, I told her that, in fact, we do. Truth be told, the spring after The Kidling was born was a particularly tornado-y one.
No, tornado-y is not a word.
No, I do not care.
I told The Kidling that we had many, many tornado watches and warnings when she was an infant.* In this basement-less home,** The Dada and I spent a lot of time in the only room on the first floor of the house that didn’t have windows: the world’s tiniest bathroom. We hustled down there with blankets and toys on myriad occasions to wait out the weather.
But when I relayed this story to The Kidling, she was delighted. Before I had a chance to wonder why, she exclaimed, “Thanks for keeping me alive!”
Kidling, it was the least we could do.
* Does anyone actually know which is worse? Like, consistently know? Don’t bother saying yes, because I won’t believe you.
** No, basement-less isn’t a word either. And I still don’t care.