Thunderstorms.

We’re having a thunderstorm tonight, they’re rare in Southern California. Beckett was asleep when it started, and he stayed that way. My kids both are Olympic-class sleepers.

Frank wasn’t asleep yet and came running into our bedroom where Doug and I were laying down, talking about our day—and him. He was frightened as he often is by new or different things. He said he was scared and wanted to cuddle with us. We turned off the light, opened the blind to the big window in the bedroom and all waited for the next flash of lightning. It came, and then we all counted the seconds until the sound of thunder. It was five seconds. And then we waited for the next, and counted, and the next, and counted. The waiting and counting took Frank’s mind off his fear. Although when he counted twelve seconds between lightning and thunder he said he was so relieved that it was moving further away. And then he asked me what relieved meant.

I explained that relieved was how I felt this morning after forty-five minutes of increasing worry when I couldn’t find my wedding ring, and then did—under Beckett’s crib. I forget that I have to watch Beckett in ways I never did with Frank.

Frank understood relieved, and was probably more so knowing he had used the word correctly.

I hugged him and kissed his forehead, rolled over to find a position where my ribs didn’t ache. I found one and drifted off to sleep. I woke up to see Doug carrying Frank, sound asleep too, off to bed.

I thank God for the comfort of my family, for myself and for Frank. My childhood was mixed. There were times of great comfort and there were times when as a frightened child I had no one interested in providing any comfort to me. I vowed things would be different for my children and they are.

I feel good about the way Doug and I parent our children. I am proud that Frank is secure enough to act the way he does sometimes, and it isn’t necessarily behavior I approve of. What makes me proud and gives me comfort, is that Frank knows that no matter how silly or crazy or naughty or even how far he crosses the line of inappropriate behavior, he knows that Doug and I still love him. He looks at me, right into my eyes, studies my reaction, waits for my response. There are times I give him a little frown, he takes a quick breath and then I wink. His face breaks into a huge smile and he says, “Sorry Mama,” and continues to grin. He knows whatever he did, he probably shouldn’t have. But he also knows that I love him anyway.

I thank God for that—for giving me my children to love.