Morning Monsoons

Monsoon season started this morning with a 5am, wake-me-up crack of thunder. The torrent began a few hours later, soaking the barbeque we’d left outside and overflowing the roof gutters.

The air seems electric—almost magical—in a thunderstorm, and I welcome the respite from yesterday’s oppressive heat.

Luca, who was too young to notice last year’s rains, watches the downpour and lightning flashes in fascination from my arms just outside our front door. “Ya, ya ya!” He squeals, reaching out his chubby arms to feel the giant drops just beyond the covered porch.

His knees tense around me when thunder rumbles.

I remember the heavy rains in Malawi that washed our compound clean, swept away the unbearable heat, and hammered our corrugated classroom roofs, rendering any lessons almost impossible but somehow more fun.

I remember—vaguely—Seoul rains outside our window last summer, as I held my swaddled newborn close.

I forget that I live in what feels like a U.S. suburb, and I remember where I am: On an adventure. Living where Americans and Brits used to consider the ends of the earth.

“Rainstorms are LOUD,” I say, reciting one of Luca’s current favorite books.

“Huh,” he says. “Huh. Ga.”

Luca wiggles to get down, but I don’t want him to crawl outside, so I kneel with him and let him plant his bare feet in the layer of water on the concrete. He points to the rain gushing out of the gutter drain, and he reaches for tree debris floating the puddle next to the walkway, a flooded planter with water creeping up stalks of growing mint.

Watching my son discover compounds that sense of excitement and promise and nostalgia the rain brought me. He makes me look to the future.

Luca is on the verge. He’s communicating desires more clearly and responding with understanding.

He even took a couple tiny steps without holding on to anyone the other day—it was so lacking drama and fanfare that I almost didn’t believe it happened. I wouldn’t have believed, except that Joe and his visiting cousin Audrey also witnessed it.

Luca now chooses his own books for Joe or me to read. If we say a key line or title of a book, he will find the right book and pull it out. He will give a little scream on queue when I read, “Whispering is quiet. Screaming is LOUD!” When I come to the part of a book that includes monkey noises and say, “Where’s Monkey?” He looks around for his sock monkey, and often picks it up with a satisfied grunt.

I’ve heard people say that when babies start talking, it is as strange as if a dog or cat suddenly spouted words. We’re not to real words yet (other than Mama, Appa, and an attempt at “vroom,” though I’m not sure onomatopoeias count), but I can attest: This is very strange.

It is amazing.

This is what separates humans from the rest, isn’t it? The ability to understand and communicate and learn in this way? I know next year I will take for granted that Luca understands my words and can respond in kind, but this year, it seems miraculous.

Out on the porch in the rain, Luca starts to get frustrated and wiggles again to get down, eager to explore. But it’s dirty, and it’s wet.

Soon (I hope), he’ll be able to walk. Soon, I’ll strap on his (knock-off) crock sandals and pull on his rain jacket, and he can snap dripping bush leaves and stomp in tiny puddles. He can feel the drops on his water-resistant hood. He can be free.

I know Luca walking will mean I have to chase him more, eye him more closely, worry more. I know it will make things harder.

But, in another way, it will make things easier. Luca walking will mean I can set him down at church or in museums or at the playground or in the subway or on the sidewalk. I won’t have to constantly wrestle him to stay in my arms when the floor is too filthy for his hands and knees (and mouth).

This crawling-and-discovery phase of Luca’s life is so much fun. But it means we stay home often. It means it’s stressful—and usually not worth it—to go to museums or the playground or the subway, because I know he’ll wrestle the whole time to get down.

Maybe it’s the clean, ozone smell of lightning or the rushing sound of the rain, but the storm gives me a sense of hope. I can’t help but believe the freedom Luca will gain from walking will also be my freedom. We have about half a year left in Seoul, and I’m determined to make the most of it.

I kiss my little wiggling boy as I carry him—protesting—back inside where I can let him be free and crawl. I let the morning’s magic pass into play time.

Monsoon season can be weeks of endless pouring rain that maroons most families inside their homes, and soon I may be praying for sun. I realize that. But today, I welcome the rain. Today, it makes anything seem possible.