Darkness

The thunderstorm was beautiful, wasn't it? Waiting for the breezes to grow stronger - catching the faint scent of the river and distant trees. I know you both love to sit right outside the door and watch as it approaches. And nature provides such lovely lessons on science and humility.

I'm sorry I scared you though. By the time the down draft had reached the end of the yard, branches were falling, trees were whining, and not knowing if the worst had gone by, I hurried you both inside with probably too much excitement in my voice. The lights flickered, and faded away for a few hours. We learned about how electricity is carried to the houses, and how there were brave people out there fixing them so that you could watch Spongebob again soon.

Bedtime came, and still no lights. Even with the tea candles on your dresser ("DO NOT touch those under ANY circumstance") and the flashlight by your bed in case you had to get up for anything, you were still so bewildered and out of sorts. "But WHY can't we watch TV? WHY can't you just turn the lights on?? Why can't I flush the toilet, mommy?"

We laid there, and I watched your head swim with thoughts. We talked about how life was 100 or more years ago, and how electricity wasn't always part of people's lives. This, I think, made things worse for you. But I was trying to teach, when I should have just told you even more times that you were safe, and I wouldn't let anything happen to you. You heard the words, but I watched your eyes as they started understanding the veil that we all take for granted.

I want to shield you from all the scary possibilities in the world, while at the same time I need to prepare you for all of them. Even the ones I can't comprehend myself.

But just as your eyes started becoming heavy, we heard a little pop, and the clock started blinking, and the nightlights overshadowed the tiny tea candles. Your grin lit up whatever darkness was left in the room, and we said a little thank you to the people that were out there fixing the wires and moving the branches from the roads. I covered you up once again and your smile was still shining even with your eyes closed, near to sleep. Everything was right in your world again - to the point where you forgot your procrastination routine of asking for one more snack, then one more drink, then one more hug, then one more 'cover me up', and so on. And I'm reminded once again of how much we need to appreciate what we have at times, instead of wanting even more. Perhaps that was the best lesson of the night, and one I didn't need to teach at all.