Thursday, July 22, 2010

Port in the Storm

We had the most incredible electrical storm I have ever experiences last night. We were having dinner with Mike and Lydia and heard a tornado warning (I know, right?) on the radio. Then, like it had just been waiting for its cue, a huge flash of lightning brightened the sky and there was a growl of thunder that lasted long enough that Miles actually lost interest in the noise before it was over. It was really an incredible storm, though - very little thunder, just lightning over and over and over again, with pauses never longer than two seconds between the next flash. Driving home felt like being under a really huge strobe light, and every time the sky lit up we could see the cornstalks whipping back and forth along the side of the road, and water in the deep puddles frothing around like the ocean. It was so intense that we found this poor little tree frog (we have tree frogs in Maine?) seeking respite at our basement window when we got home.

The most interesting thing, though, wasn't even the storm - it was my reaction to it. I love a good storm (and man, this was a good one), always have. I've always been the type to drive down to the beach to watch the waves (following in Grammie's legacy there) or make a mug of tea and perch by the window, nose pressed against the steaming glass. But last night, I was a total mess. Like, heart beating out of my chest, anxiously squeazing the baby, frizzy-haired mess. I know I can'tblame the hair thing on the storm. Let me anyway, please. It was bizarre - I was completely panicked about going outside, even from Lydia's house to the car, and then into our own house. I actually tried to convince Jesse to drive around until the storm was over. Visions of Jesse getting struck by lightning and lying, smoldering, in the driveway kept flashing through my head. I wasn't able to settle down and actually start enjoying the storm until Miles was asleep in his crib, all the windows were closed, everything electrical was unplugged, the dogs were upstairs and Jesse had solemnly vowed not to touch the screen door.

What has happened to me? I blame motherhood. Have my fierce tigress protective instincts robbed me of any drop of enjoyment I might get out of semi-dangerous situations? And more importantly, is this normal?

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