The Funderstorm

I was given the book called Raising Children Without Going Insane by Australian Author Jane Evans. I thought, how apropos and I read and read until I was so tired that my mental narrator began to sound like The Crocodile Hunter which was really irritating. So I put the book down and went to sleep for the night.

But not the whole night... A storm blew in at four in the morning and regaled the entire house with unfortunately loud thunder and bright flashes of lightning. I wanted to roll over and stay asleep, I really, really did. I tried to ignore the panging in my stomach prompting me to go check on Toby who was probably frozen with fear under his covers gripping tightly to his stuffed dalmatian, Samson. I willed that he was sleeping soundly through it, snug as a bug, blissfully unaware of anything unusual. But I knew I was wrong.

Toby has an anomalous list of fears that ebbs and flows in intensity: bounce houses, large inflatable Christmas decorations for the lawn, getting his head wet (hence the buzz cut...), loud noises, and socks with holes. The other night he gave a sidelong glance at the yellow fire hat perched above a matching raincoat on his bedroom wall that I hung to accent his firetruck quilt. Mommy, I don't like that Toby, he whispered as if it were not an ornamental novelty but an evil alter ego, he no have eyes. A good mother would have removed it at once and explained that it didn't have eyes because it was just a hat and jacket, nothing more. But I was too busy marvelling over my son's imagination to be a good mother. If there is one neuroses this mom can appreciate its an over-active imagination. I spent my childhood dreaming of scrubbing the floors in Miss Hannigan's orphanage like Annie or riding on the back of giant flying dog with Atreyu in The Neverending Story. I would lay awake at night and terrify myself with all of the creepy things that might be lurking behind my own closet door. If I can't offer a cure, I can certainly empathize.

Most often, Toby's creative enterprises compel me to play along because he is just so sincere. I spent a month in the fall sweeping invisible "dinosaurs" from his path while commanding "Shoo! Go away" because it delighted him so much that I saw them too. To him dinosaurs, the very embodiment of evil, are not huge prehistoric lizards (and extinct), but knee-high and mechanically roaring like the toy T-Rex in his friend Kyle's bedroom. Therefore, in September, when I became the lone member of the Dino Extermination Squad, it didn't require any extravagant heroics on my part. And it was easier than wasting logical reasoning on someone who still maintains that Sodor is an actual geographic location.

But this night is different. Standing up to an invisible pest while already awake is not as self -sacrificial as rousting from a deep sleep in the wee hours of the morning to invite a wiggly, chatty three-year-old to share your bed. I slump over the edge of the mattress and drag myself to the bedroom door, but I am stopped by a whisper from Greg.

"Are you going to check on Toby?" he asks.

"Yes, I don't want him to be afraid," I say nobly.

"Well, neither did I so I went and got him already." And in the dark I spy a small quiet body snuggled safely in the crook of his daddy's arm.

"Mommy, the funderstorm made me skeerd," He says in a hushed, sweet voice. I crawl back in beside him and kiss his fuzzy, buzz-cut head. As I drift off to sleep I think of chasing dinosaurs and magical lands and the wonder of crashing thunder outside your bedroom window. I pull him closer to me. Sweet dreams little buddy.