A mom’s musings during a summer Texas storm and power outage
Thunder rumbles in the not-so-distant distance. Again. For what seems like the millionth time this spring.
Daughter asks me if she can make a quick Chipotle run. “Sure,” I say with false bravado, trying not to let my longstanding anxiety about thunderstorms transfer over to her. “But if you’re going, go now. Sounds like it might storm. But I think it will stay south.”
It did not, in fact, stay south.
Ten minutes later, torrential downpours. Wind threatening to take the flamingo float in the pool. (Can flamingos fly? Guess we’ll see.) Hail (again!). Usually an anomaly in southeast Texas, this is the third round of hail in as many weeks. Just pea-sized today. That’s good, I guess. Small.
Still, I run out to capture it on camera, in case we need it for any damage we might incur. It doesn’t photograph well. Looking at the photos, it feels like a “Where’s Waldo” kind of hide and seek.
The power flickers. Enough to reset the clock and microwave. It’s not that I hate resetting the time on appliances, it’s that I hate resetting the microwave sound settings. If I don’t, the keypad beeps loud enough to wake the whole family every time I reheat those early-morning cups of coffee. I hate that beeping.
Yet even after nine years of setting and resetting, I can’t seem to remember how to turn off the volume without waiting for the digital instructions to pop up. (Note to self: Press 2, then Clear. Really, it’s not that hard to remember!)
Whoops. Another flicker. Not a good sign. But we’re on the same grid as the wastewater plant, so we won’t lose power completely. We rarely do.
I spoke too soon.
Third time isn’t a charm.
It’s out.
Time of WiFi death: 2:29 p.m.
(Or maybe it’s more like a coma? Conscious sedation?)
It’s one thing to navigate 90 degree Texas summer days without power. But without WiFi? [Insert sarcastic tone here.] How will we ever survive?
Life360 no longer shows where my daughter is. Hope she’s managing the drive home OK. I grab a golf umbrella and wait for her on the front porch, capturing more hail video and silently praying for no lightning. I’ve hated lightning ever since it struck my house when I was a kid.
Headlights shine down the street. Phew. She made it home. I scurry (carefully … the concrete is slick) down the walkway to meet her at the car and escort her back into the house.
“There was a guy riding a bike on the side of the road, mom. I’m worried he’ll get hit.”
The storm eases. As fast as it came, it’s gone.
The sun even peeks out.
But … no power.
It doesn’t take long for the frustration to start.
I have a client Zoom at 4. Well, I did, at least. Deep in our neighborhood, we barely have cell service. Not even my blue iMessages go through. I have to resort to (gasp) green SMS/MMS texts to cancel it.
“Power out?” Husband texts from golf course. “It is here.” Doesn’t bother him one way or the other. Guess he’s playing 18 instead of 9.
Out of habit, I turn on the bathroom light. No go.
Why is it so instinctual to turn on the lights even though you know the power is out?
What do I do? Clean? Can’t work. Fold laundry? Can’t do dishes. Swim? Read? Make a to-do list?
Son comes home from work. “Power out,” I helpfully share. He grunts. He immediately puts a burrito in the microwave. “Not gonna happen,” I remind him. Room temp burrito it is. Then he’s off to the gym, where there’s reportedly power. “Can’t go through the garage!” Another grunt in reply.
The uncertainty of how long we’ll be without electricity (read: WiFi) is killing my daughter. “What if no one has reported the outage?” she asks. “Can I drive down the street to check if the coffee shop has power? I’ll call it in.”
Go for it.
“What are you doing on the computer?” she asks before she leaves, in what feels like a slightly accusatory tone. Like maybe I have access to a secret hotspot that’s supplying me with endless TikToks while she’s stuck with … nothing.
“Just writing,” I reply, tippy-tapping away.
The front door shuts behind her.
The house is quiet, save for the humming of the neighbor’s generator (lucky!) and yet another damn fly I can’t seem to kill.
Clunk. I hear the first sign of the rising indoor temperature — the mini fridge defrosting and a big chunk of ice falling off the back.
The temperature has gone up maybe two or three degrees, but in my mind (and my armpits), it’s far more.
Do I take one for the team, and start clearing out the freezer — starting by getting out the ice cream and digging in? Maybe not. There’s a lot of ice cream left. Glad I turned the freezer temp to “extra cold” yesterday.
And so I wait.
Alone.
In the quiet.
And the heat.
With a phone battery of 16%, I resort to the pool to cool off. By the time I’m out, everyone is back, filled with reports of who is with (and without) power. And a lot of lamenting as to “why us?”
Son and daughter agree that a Starbucks run is in order. You know, to check to see who else does/doesn’t have power. They’re off. Again.
My husband and I wait outside on the patio, making small talk. “A repair crew’s been assigned to us,” I report.
If we had power, I’d say that news was the light at the end of the tunnel.
7:06 p.m. We hear the magical (yet annoying) sound of the microwave and oven springing back to life.
“Power’s on,” I text my daughter. “You can come home.”
It could be a long hurricane season ahead.
Good thing I’ve still got that ice cream.
Four Birds 