Tomayto. Tomahto.

Last night, we put the kids in the closet. You see, there was a big storm coming, and being without a basement we thought the master bedroom closet would be the safest place for the Fab 5 to sit, cuddle and wait it out.

70 MPH winds were headed our way at 40 MPH (didn’t make sense then… doesn’t make sense now), and several tornados had already touched down just west of us. Roofs were being removed from houses like the tops to peanut cans. Cars were being flipped and turned and ‘moved’ hundreds of feet from their designated spots. It was bad out there, and it seemed to be moving right towards us. All five kids were excited about the adventure and sank deep into the comforters and pillows, anxiously anticipating the coming storm.

I stood watch at the front door, confident that we were all going to be OK and smiling at the thought of my cat… out there.

But the screams from the closet made me run back there to comfort and console. My three year old was especially giddy. He was squealing and laughing and diving in and out of the covers asking, “Is it here? Is it coming? Daddy, where is it?”

He was uncontrollable. The look on his face was of both joy and terror and he was becoming increasingly annoying. I tried to put myself in his position: “It’s raining really hard outside, so we’re hiding in Mom and Dad’s closet in and amongst shoes and sweaters and carelessly thrown coat hangers…” I guess that IS pretty unnerving to a three year old, but still… he was out of control. Something had to be done.

“Quinn! Settle down! You’re gonna be OK. Just sit there for a few more minutes and you can go back to bed!”

“But Daddy!” he screamed, “What about the tomatoes! We have to hide from the tomatoes!”


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