I've been hearing and reading all the talk about El Nino coming this winter. Some people have been saying they are really excited for it and I get that. We need rain. I can't wait for rain myself. I have a cute pair of boots from our one short storm last winter and I can't wait to go splashing in puddles with Adeline as a two year old.

Then someone mentioned it casually a few days ago and it took me to a different place. I remembered being 7 years old watching the flood waters rise in my back yard and up between our house and our neighbors. Hearing the sirens and hiding behind my mom as the fireman banged on our door and told us now was the time to leave unless we wanted to be evacuated on a surfboard later. I remember being scared.

Pauline and I had been watching Winnie the Pooh, specifically the episode where Christopher Robin rescues Piglet from a flood in an umbrella. I think my mom had probably turned this particular show on because it was raining so hard outside. It was so surreal to look out the window and see a flood in real life. We lived at Quail Lodge at the time, backed up to the Carmel River but far enough away that we didn't think the water stood a chance of reaching us.

I remembered scurrying around with my mom and packing bags, her making phone calls, figuring out who we were going to stay with. The fire engine was parked directly outside our house. We were one of the few families with children on our circle and the firemen were paying special attention to our house and our neighbors as it was in immediate danger.

We left the house in the pouring rain. My mom had newborn Abigail at the time who was less than a month old. My dad was out on business so she rounded us up alone. I have so much compassion for her now.

We were so panicked and yet we truly didn't believe our home would flood, even though we were watching a new river rush between our houses and watching that new river break its bank into our yard. I remember Pauline and I holding on to each other. She was still shorter than me then. In the hurry, we accidentally left our pet rabbit Butterscotch at home.

When we arrived at our friends house in Pacific Grove to stay the night and realized our mistake, the waters had already reached her cage. I remember being so angry with my mom. Begging and crying to go back to get her. I think I found out later that my parents had tried and been turned away by the fire engines barring the street.

We weren't able to return home for several weeks and couldn't move back in for more than a month. We stayed in a hotel for most of that time. The flood had seeped up through the vents and into the house. Luckily the house was designed on several levels and only two rooms, the living room and the garage had flooded entirely. Because we used our huge two-car garage as storage, we still ended up losing quite a bit.

When we did come home, mud was caked up and down the driveway. It was so strange to walk in and see our things covered in mud with the whole place stinking. A friend of my parents went in first and saw to Butterscotch. She had been in her cage in the garage (which was carpeted) and the flood had taken her. We had a funeral for her.

Things slowly returned to normal. In school, some friends had it worse. They told stories about the flood destroying almost everything they owned. There were Red Cross shelters set up at Carmel Middle School and some stayed there for awhile. Our next door neighbors ignored the fire fighters warning when they came knocking door to door and stayed with their house until the last minute. They were evacuated out on surfboards in 6-8 feet of water.

I think experiencing El Nino as a child taught me a lot of things, the main one being that nature is hugely powerful. Since then I have prepared as other natural disasters (tornado, landslide, flood, fire) happened around me. I think maybe it's because whenever I have heard of what's to come, I've tried to prepare. That first fear was a powerful teacher.

Even though we are nowhere near a river this winter, we will still have renters insurance in case flooding happens through intense rain. We will have batteries and flashlights, a radio and plenty of Costco food and water. We won't go crazy, but we also won't be naive. This has happened here before and done some real damage.

The water supply was affected during the last El Nino with some homes losing water altogether for quite awhile. We will help our friends sand bag their home and move their belongings high up or out if it comes to it.

We will talk to Adeline about what is happening in a way that makes sense for a two year old. We can start now with books about rains and storms. We'll repeat it if we lose power or during particularly heavy storms, because even that can be scary for a little one.  We will let her know she is always safe with us, even if what is around us becomes unsafe. That we will always make decisions that we think will keep her safest.

The conversation that got me remembering all this was a casual one at a gas station a few days ago. The man said, "I can't wait for El Nino!" with big smile. I laughed and nodded. Then I walked away, those old memories rolling around my mind. El Nino. Those two words brought me back to the living room, the rain on the roof, the fireman at the door, the water pounding, rushing all around. The feeling of being a small person in a storm.

 This photo is from the second Carmel River Flood in 1998. Photo from the Carmel Pine Cone.

All of the milestones we've celebrated these past 18 months added up. I used to find them terrifying because with each new skill we were pulled farther and farther from that tiny six pound baby in a blanket. Now, Adeline says "baby" herself & tucks in dolls and kisses them "ni-night" sweetly on their foreheads. Our baby is a toddler now. Sometimes I wonder if God is intentionally growing her sweet fuzz hair so slowly so that I can still see my tiny baby in her face. But even now those fuzzy little strands are peeking past her neck and I can see a tiny little fountain ponytail in our future.

I've been happier than I've ever been since she was born. I spent so much time in the first six months of her life desperately trying to get the hang of it all... breastfeeding, babywearing, doctor's appointments, the sleeping and waking and tummy time and swaddling. The next six months were all about gaining confidence--- saying things like "my daughter" without thinking twice and forming opinions on topics from baby led weaning to attachment parenting. Finding a tribe. Finding a circle. Finding a community of moms and trying to sort out a sense of belonging in my new world.

Those second six months, I was constantly trying to find the best way to parent. To be the parent that I wanted to be. What would that look like? I spent the second six months of her first year somewhere between laughing, crying and a panic attack. And then one afternoon in the middle of the bedroom, she was crawling. Climbing. Splashing in the bath. Quicker than anything, Adeline turned one.

We had a party with all of our friends. I remember hugging each person as they came into the yard. I'm not sure I could have made it that year without our friends. They called, visited, and then maybe the most important thing--- kept calling, kept checking in, kept making plans even as things like colds and exhaustion and busy schedules crept in and broke some of them.

I don't think I'll ever forget the day of her party. It was shady and warm in the yard. The blackberries looked the same way they did the night we left for the hospital to have her. Everyone who wanted to picked some. I remember looking over at Talmon as all three of us blew the candles out on her cake. It was so surreal. We had a beautiful little daughter, our own little home. We made it. We'd come out the other side of a year and we were ok.

The last six months have been all about thankfulness and discovery. While Adeline is discovering the world around her and becoming an active part of it, we are learning more and more about her. She's quick and chatty with a streak of spunk a mile wide. She's quiet and curious about new things. Sometimes, she's exhausting. Exhilarating. She's huge smiles and pink cheeks and one tiny blonde curl.

She opens me up to a way of being that I've never known before. We were driving home from the garden at dusk yesterday and something about the way she was wiggling in her carseat told me that her exploring wasn't done for the day. I was so tired from a night of waking and a busy day, but I turned the car towards Asilomar Beach anyways and we got out just after the sunset. Dark black clouds over Spanish Bay hung low and all the oranges and pinks whisked across the ocean.

We took off our shoes and walked along the path toward the water. Stuck sticks into a pile of sand. If you're quiet for a minute and be mindful, I swear toddlers will show you the meaning of life. It's about touching a shell and noticing it's smoothness, hearing the music of a violin from a bonfire across the way, stopping to watch something sing and swoop along the horizon.

She is so innocent,  I remember thinking. She is seeing these things I've seen all my life for the first time. I wondered all through the walk what she thought of this place. Suddenly, she pointed her index finger towards the sky and said "Mama? Mama? Bird!!!!!" "Yes, Adeline, that's a bird." I said, absentmindedly. She turned towards me and asked "Mama? Hug?" She reached her tiny arms around my shoulders and buried her face in my neck.

In eighteen months of motherhood, I think I've finally learned the most important thing. When your child hugs you, never be the first to let go.