Not waving, drowning

I think every DC blogger is talking about the rain these days, and I'm not going to be any different. Avant moi, le deluge indeed. I just got off the phone with my parents, assuring them that everything is fine -- the roof, the books, the basement where all the books are, the small child. We have not checked the garage, but then again anything that goes in there automatically has the word "expendable" stamped on it, so I'm not worried.

I will tell you one thing: the one person who is getting a huge kick out of all of this is my son.

On Sunday, when this whole shebang started, Xan and I came home from a Costco run right before the rain began. I raced inside with groceries and child while Angela was outside in front of the grill with an umbrella. (Envisioning the heat and humidity, we planned this week's recipes around salads and grilling. At least the first part will keep us somewhat dry.) Xan complained bitterly, so I let him go back outside, thinking that he would have learned enough from Vega to not enjoy being wet and come back in. Nope: not only were we not upset by the rain, but we happily romped all around and ate even more blackberries, even as the rain poured down and stranded both Mom and Dad under a deck umbrella, two ninnies who were trying to remain dry for some ridiculous reason.

Yesterday, he came to campus as I was shilling for New Student Orientations, dispensing with professorial advice. (Mine amounts to: Talk in class, make sure you investigate DC beyond the Red Line, and yes, it actually is possible that you will meet the person you're going to marry in your first weeks of school, even if you don't actually start dating until long after you graduate.) Xan came to lunch with my colleague -- an adventure in itself -- and afterwards we went out to enjoy the 15 minutes of sun that emerged between monsoons.

And what comes after the rain? Puddles!

Here is how one must apparently examine a puddle:

1. Toddle forward until you stand directly in front of puddle.
2. Bend over.
3. Maneuver hand up and down in rapid manner, causing ripples or, if deep enough, sincere splashes.
4. Contemplate. Process. File information away.
5. Look for another puddle nearby and move on.

This process continued until we encountered a rather large puddle, which we then made the mistake of walking through. At this point, we discover that our shoe makes an even bigger plash. In which case, we add the following direction:

• If puddle is large enough to clomp around in, clomp wildly away until laughter is as loud as splashes are high. It is preferrable to wet Dad in the process.

All was going very well especially when, after detouring onto the grass, Xan slipped backwards and fell flat out into a huge mud puddle. Now, his jeans, shirt and socks are covered in mud. I am hysterically giggling at the sight and, when I bring him back to my office, not only show him off to my colleagues who are around, but allow him to sit on a paper in someone's returned-papers box. (Said paper now has the imprint of a baby's bottom in mud on it.)

It was only at this point that I discovered the diaper bag is missing (a) a change of pants and, more crucially, (b) a change of diaper.

We'll see what happens today. I have no Xan today but, for some reason, I thought that it was a good day to drive to work. Hmm. Maybe I should retrieve that brain from wherever I left it last time.