My neighbor calls and offers some flowers for the butterfly garden. The boys and I wheel over a wagon to dig them up. They want to stay and play with her kids but hustle them along. I want to head to the school and plant everything tonight.
“Now?” Chaz asks, eyes gazing at the darkening sky, when I tell him we won't be long.
“I want to get these in the ground so they’ll get a good soaking,” I say shooing the boys into the car. "This," I say waving my arms to indicate the weather, "is perfect."
The rain starts as soon as we begin to dig. “It’s just water,” I say. “We’re fine! It’s like swimming standing up!” This doesn't even make sense to me as I say it. Who swims in their clothes?
Thunder cracks in the distance and a flash of lightening follows.
“In the car! Lightening!” I shout and the boys race to the car and toss themselves in.
The skies have opened up. Sheets of rain obscure anything more than five feet in front of one's face. Did they forecast a typhoon?
“Lightening, Mom!” F. yells from the car as another bolt streaks across the sky.
I’m so close to finishing. I can’t stop.
I also don’t want to be standing in a lightening storm holding a metal shovel.
Dig. Plant. Dig. Plant. Dig. Plant.