You know those rainstorms, a proto-hurricane storm, buckets of rain, wind whipping the drops so they actually hurt. It was one of those nites. It was also 2:30 in the morning. Dark. Snug. Sleep.
Then it changes. You open your eyes and she is standing there staring at you. "There is someone trying to get in my window!" And she continues to stare, her eyes insisting that this is not a drill.
You get up and follow her back to her room. Her footies almost causing her to trip, but she is dedicated to sharing the fragile nature of the bedroom window with you. Opening the drapery you see the wind moving the bush next to the house and its branches forced into the window by the steady breeze.
This little person has no tolerance for theoretical knowledge and demands a demonstration of experiential wisdom in every facet of her life. Thus, armed with flashlight, flipflops, tee shirt and scrubs bottom you plunge into the storm. Instant drenching and scoriation from wind tossed branches remove the last vestiges of sleep.
A survey of the side yard with a dramatic flourish of the flashlight beam over the window and the little face peering out, brought satisfaction and relief to that most critical personality in the house.
Back through the bushes, marshalling the door so it does not get whipped out of your hands and slammed into the wall by the wind and you are back inside. It takes 10 minutes to mop up the floor, towel off and change into dry sleeping clothes.
Your peek in the bedroom reveals the slow, steady breathing of a sleeping child, her right hand clutching "Silky".
You cross back to the master suite, climb in bed and hear a sleepy mumble, "everything OK?"
"Yes, everything is fine."