A mom’s mantra: Dance in the rain
When I was 13, my friends and I decided to start a summer camp. We traipsed door to door across the scorching Texas asphalt, passing out pamphlets filled with words intended to convince parents to share their children with us each Monday for our Fun in the Sun program.
It was the 1990s, we were charging $10 a day for a camp held at my house under the watchful backup eye of my mom, and most of the parents already knew us from swim team. It was an easy sell.
We spent the summer with 25 kids, making homemade movies on a suitcase-size camcorder, playing soccer on the brown, sticker-burr-studded lawn and trying to slurp up Popsicles before they melted into puddles at the bottom of the stick.
Pool crowds starting to dwindle and back-to-school outfits beginning to fill closets, we decided to throw an “end-of-camp bash” for campers and their parents. We worked with the kids on every aspect of the celebration and were meticulous about each detail, from the color of the tablecloths to the huge blue Jell-O-filled aquarium that would serve as both our centerpiece and our refreshment.
At the exact same time the celebration was scheduled to start, it began to pour — the sort of dime-size raindrops and horizontal gusts of wind that only a perfect summer storm can bring.