Thunderstorms and pouring down rain all day, every day, for what seems like a week now. Isn’t this why we left Seattle? I am waiting for the basement to flood, checking it hourly. There are cracks in the foundation, you can see stripes of the outside through them. Are there lares (household gods) of gutters? What could I give them as an offering, buckets of rustproof paint? The promise of biannual deleafing? There are inches-deep puddles in the yard and the patio is completely underwater. Maybe the koi pond I wanted isn’t so unrealistic, after all.

I like the rain and the cozy closed-in, hot cocoa feeling it brings, but the kids are nutso, and driving me there as well. The Biggie has been pretending to be the Wee One all day, crawling around and saying “HIYA!” This is fine, except when I’m trying to get the real Wee One down for a nap, and she keeps jerking awake to the sound of shuffle-shuffle-”HIYA” downstairs. Grrrr.

The Wee One would be walking now if she chose to, but has no patience for it. Why would she, when her legs-blurred supercrawl is faster than light? The Husband often remarks that her face must hurt, she smiles so much. There are not dimples, there are craters, black holes sucking all sunlight into the middles of her cheeks. I am savoring the baby chub while it lasts, because when this kid takes off, it’s going to be all muscle from there on out. I’m thinking wrestling, soccer--anything that will get her a scholarship.

The Biggie is, I hate to place on the record, going through a major whiner phase. She is probably just sick of hanging out with her domineering mother (“Do NOT paint the table with yogurt!”). I need to find her a preschool. (The preschool did implode after all, and we are out of luck for the fall.) All of my superkind, kid-centric attachment parenting techniques have no effect on The Whine. When it starts, my head whirls around like a top and veins start to bulge out of my neck. Maybe I’m just drinking too much coffee.

Sigh. Time to check the basement again.