We have been having an unusually warm spring here in good ol’ Nebraska. This last week it has been in the 80s most days, and it hit 90 yesterday. 90!! I got a nice sunburn on my front side yesterday at my son’s baseball game, then came home and had my first tanning time of the year trying to even it up by cooking my backside. (FYI – I’m a tanning junkie. Since I have the summers off, I spend most days turning my hide into a deep shade of bronze and I love it!)
If you’re unfamiliar with the midwest and it’s heat and humidity, high heat and humidity this early in the spring cooks the atmosphere and sets up for thunderstorms overnight. The 90+ heat set up an intense 4 am thunderstorm with lighting and hail. I LOVE thunderstorms. I find they make for great sleeping, but I could do without the hail. One huge benefit of the thunderstorms is they instantly and dramatically drop the temperature. Today was nice, a little overcast, but still in the low 70s. Great sitting on the deck and reading weather!
The downfall of intense heat is that children, my son in particular, begin to get the idea that it is summer, water play time. He comes to me today and asks to have a water gun fight with the neighbor kid. Now, yesterday, when it was 90, sure, but not today. He’s already an allergy mess with these up and down temperatures. I don’t need to add wet and attracting weeds and pollen to the mix. He accepts the no well (mine hear it often) and hops the fence back into the neighbor’s yard. I return to my book.
I took over a few minutes later to see him drenched and wrapped in a towel.
“Trystan, come here.”
“What are you doing over there?”
“We are NOT having a water gun fight. We are filling water balloons!”
Nice! I said no to the water gun fight to avoid this sopping mess. Leave it to my son to play semantics with me.
Next, I watch as they launch the filled water balloons over a sound barrier wall towards cars on the interstate.
As I’m sitting on the deck debating whether I should go inside and remove all proof that he is my child incase the police show up, when he runs over clutching to sticks.
“Mom, where are my pocket knives at? I want to make a few spears!”
Debate solved! Son? What son?