This summer, and the spring before it, have been intense. Intense, how-high-can-I-crank-that-AC heat. Intense, those-trees-won't-fall-will-they winds. I went away for a week and there too listened to locals talk about how unusually hot this summer's been. On a day hike, I reapplied sunscreen three times. Because intense. And the very next day I woke up to grey, overcast skies. Once they opened up, it rained nonstop for close to ten hours, pouring for most of that time. Intense.
I flew home on Monday only to receive a flash flood alert on my phone on Tuesday. I checked to make sure it wasn't because my phone still secretly believed itself to be back in my vacation destination. Nope—it was a real life alert for my real life home area. And sure enough, skies clouded up, then unleashed all.the.water.
This weather, it strikes me as a metaphor (perhaps a bit of a trite one, but go with it) for babylost parenthood—everything is intense, everything is intensified, and things can turn on a dime at any moment. And it occurs to me that we haven't done a check-in in a while.
So here—the tea is boiling, the lemonade is fresh and cold. Pour yourself whichever one suits you today. Grab a seat. How's the weather by you? How's the weather *of* you?