Blame it on the rain
Around here, Grandma and Grandpa get blamed for things …
Take hyperactive children in church for instance. The kids arrive at the sanctuary subdued and sleepy but by the time they’ve consumed copious amounts of M&Ms and other sugary goodness from Nanny’s Tupperware container, they’re all bouncing off the walls. Just ask the people who sit in surrounding pews! I can’t, however, blame Papa & Nanny for the weather … or this …
A soggy gaggle of gleeful siblings and cousins.
I can’t blame Nanny for the Spiderman pajamas or the bare feet or the styrofoam swords in the hands of the boys. After all, I’m the one who said the boys would love the swords. And they did. We could tell by the screeches and maniacal laughter flowing on the thwacks of every blow to the head they dealt each other.
I can’t blame her for dripping granddaughters and saturated grandsons. I certainly can’t blame her for the joyful abandon happening in her yard at the top of six very powerful sets of lungs.
The neighbors, hearing a commotion, filed over to watch six river rats dance under the overhang.
The startling spectacle kept them at attention — no doubt waiting to see what those crazy kids would do next.
But then the downpour stopped. All that remained was a shimmering promise and one gigantic dilemma …
What on earth are you going to do with such a waterlogged mess of offspring?
I look to the heavens from whence cometh my strength … and my patience!