It is going to thunder every Tuesday evening from now until mid-July.
I am citing this confidently as fact without any advanced forecast technology at my disposal, no almanac, and without psychic abilities.
How do I know? Because I just signed my kids up for the swim team at our neighborhood pool.
Every Tuesday night I will be at the pool with three kids in tow. I’ll be pulling volunteer shifts doing things like timing laps, which scares me to death because God forbid I’m talking and miss the stop button by .4 seconds which drops Kayden from second place to not placing at all, which makes Kayden’s mom want to “just have a word with me.” Bless my heart.
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Relieved of my timing responsibilities, I’ll be trying to get halfway through the meet before I give in and buy three snow cones, when the thunder rolls in.
“That was not thunder!” everyone will say quickly, desperately trying to keep the humidity-drenched, alcohol-free misery from being prolonged.
“That was me!” a glorious lying martyr will shout. “I rolled my cooler across the deck! That was totally me, not thunder!”
We will all buy it. The officials, the parents, the lifeguards, everyone. Not because we want our kids to be electrocuted, but because during the summer it thunders every single Tuesday night in Raleigh, storm or no storm.
But then it will thunder again. The martyr shrugs; this one did sound a little more ominous.
The whistle will blow, signaling a thousand wet swimmers to scamper about the deck. Despite my best attempts, the snow cones are bought after just one swim.
“They’re going to get a tummy-ache,” Kayden’s mom will say. She brought freshly cut watermelon for her family; bless her heart.
“The sugar makes them swim faster,” I’ll reply, without missing a beat.
I’m still learning to be a swim team mom, but I try.
Why endure it all? Because it’s good for them. They really do become great swimmers, build great memories and create amazing friendships, but mostly because it’s summer in Raleigh.
Tuesday nights belong to swim meets.