Water under the bridge

Tropical Storm Karen brushed past TT and went about her business without a care about the damages she had caused to property, threat to lives and bacchanal in relationships. It took my son and me a few hours well to heal the rift she had caused between us the day following her visit to the periphery of TT.

It all started early last Sunday morning when he, uncharacteristically, woke up long before ten to witness the “bad weather” I told him we were supposed to experience.

“Not even a drop of rain. I thought this thing was supposed to start at six?” he queried. I had to explain to him that meteorology is not an exact science and sometimes things don’t happen as forecast.

He gave me a look of disappointment followed by a comment to the effect that he had wasted his time waking up early and he shouldn’t have listened to me. Karen had planted her seed of mistrust. He went away sulking, in search of some other form of excitement and I went back to sleep.

Not long after, the sound of rain pelting against the walls roused me and I went looking for him. He was planted on a chair in front of an open door looking on in amazement at how the wind was throwing the raindrops and tossing the branches of the trees every which way.

“I want to go out in the rain to play,” he pleaded, and I acquiesced. “Just come inside as soon as you see lightning flashing, and don’t play in the dirty water,” I warned. He rode his bike and skateboarded through the puddles in delight, as the rain continued to teem down.

Later that afternoon, he couldn’t contain his pleasure when National Security Minister Stuart Young announced the closure of schools the following day. As we looked at TV and social media footage of the losses and heartache left behind by Karen, he agreed that the minister had made “a very good” decision. “Mummy, he said it may flood tomorrow too, and flooding is not safe,” he highlighted, as if I didn’t know.

What he didn’t realise, though, was that no school didn’t mean no schoolwork. So, the weeping and gnashing of teeth that followed on Monday morning when I told him to get ready to do some work was no match for Karen’s fury. I tried to lighten the mood by writing a fun sum on the white board.

“If a standard five student who is preparing for SEA cried for exactly one hour, and eight teardrops rolled down his cheeks every ten minutes:

(a) Find the square root of the total number of tears he shed.

(b) What percentage of his tears were of the crocodile persuasion?

(c) Estimate how many of those tears even mattered to his mother.

(d) Do you think he got out of doing his work because he cried? Give reasons for your answer.”

He was not amused and our three-hour long session reached fever pitch several times. Surprisingly, we both lived to tell the story. What is not surprising is the fact that by bedtime, as we lay listening to the soothing sound of the rain tapping on the roof, the events of the day was water under the bridge and Karen’s temporary setback had vanished, just as quickly as she had.