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?