When I was a teenager, my friends and I decided to create a summer camp in our neighborhood. We walked from house to house across the sweltering Texas pavement, handing out pamphlets we’d printed on a dot-matrix printer, aiming to persuade parents to let us care for their kids each Monday for our “Fun in the Sun” (FITS, as we called it) program.
It was the 1990s, and we charged $10 a day for camp held at my home, supervised by my mom, who was familiar to most of the parents from swim team. It turned out to be an easy sell.
Our summer was filled with 25 kids, making homemade films on a suitcase-sized camcorder, playing soccer on a lawn rife with sticker burrs, and trying to consume popsicles before they dripped off the sticks. As summer waned and back-to-school clothing began to fill closets, we decided to host a grand “end-of-camp celebration” for our campers and their families. We involved the kids in every aspect of the planning, carefully selecting everything from the color of the tablecloths to a gigantic blue Jello-filled aquarium that would serve as our centerpiece and refreshment station.
Just as the celebration was set to kick off, a summer storm rolled in. The rain poured down in dime-sized drops, and the wind whipped through the yard, transforming our decorations from light pink to magenta. All the mothers rushed from their cars to the garage like seagulls flocking to breadcrumbs—except one. This mom stepped out into the rain, dancing joyfully as if an invisible umbrella shielded her from the storm’s inconveniences.
The delight on her children’s faces was unforgettable. In that moment, I resolved to become the kind of mom who would dance in the rain someday. Fast forward two decades, and I’m now a busy mother to two little girls, ages 5 and 3, striving to juggle a full-time job with playdates, school projects, and soccer practices. After an extended dinner at my parents’ house on a weeknight, I found myself snapping at my girls to hurry to the car.
Then my spirited five-year-old darted toward the outside faucet and turned on the sprinkler. Water shot into the air, creating rainbows against the twilight sky, while both girls twirled beneath the spray in their clothes. As I prepared to list all the reasons they couldn’t play in the sprinkler, something stopped me: “Be the kind of mom who will dance in the rain.” I dropped my purse in the grass and joined them, their expressions shifting from surprise to pure joy as we danced together, soaked in our dinner attire. It was perfect.
Not every moment can be like this; we have schedules, obligations, and routines, including baths and bedtime. And yes, there are glasses of wine to enjoy and episodes of “Project Runway” to catch up on after a long day. Yet, I am embracing this mantra, striving to put it into action as often as I can: “Be the kind of mom who will dance in the rain.”
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In summary, embracing spontaneity and joy in parenting can make all the difference in creating cherished memories with our children. Let’s remember to dance in the rain, even when life gets hectic.