A current conflict in our house centers on rain.
For my sons, rain showers mean no afternoon or evening baseball. So when the weather radar is splotchy with green, they’re standing by the front window studying the conditions. With hope, they wear their mitts, complete with motionless baseballs tucked inside the palms of the leather. Silently, they chant, “Rain, rain go away!” as the gray skies block the sunlight, and the spotty sprinkles start to bounce on the sidewalk.
On the other hand, I’m on the opposite side of the house washing dishes and looking out the kitchen window. As I watch the drops of water bounce off my neighbor’s white fence, my thoughts wander to our community garden down the road. My hopes are for a gentle watering of our precious, young plants.
“Water is good for the grassy parts of the baseball fields,” I remind them when we come together to check the family computer for emails about possible game cancellations.
“Too much water might drown your tomatoes,” they take turns reminding me. “You wouldn’t want that.”
We are all sad when it rains just enough to cancel baseball but not quite enough to reach the thirsty roots in the garden.
It’s a dance that we’ll continue all summer.