On the other side of the windowpane, rain splatters the porch. Then it patters. Then it pounds. Then it patters once again. This child hears the thunder and watches the water as it pours down the gray stone street. When the thunder growls louder, she leans her head onto my shoulder. She bites her hand, while her large blue eyes stretch out wide, looking into me. I hold the baby in my left arm and wrap her body with my right. Here I am, I think, holding my two small children during a spring storm. It has happened. I am a mom.
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