A whopper storm was forecast. A real soaker would be an exciting kick-off for the rainy season. At the same time we were looking forward to a new baby in the family. While there had been a flurry of tiny cousins produced by the other side, our immediate tribe had not had an infant join us since the last great arrival of our granddaughter three years ago.

With an eye on the heavens and an ear to the phone, we began a baby and storm watch, hurrying to finish a yard project. Once the rain or the baby came, there would be no time to spend dragging around flagstones.

On that weekend clouds skittered around and the sky looked like it wanted to do something meaningful. And the expectant parents reported things could happen any time. There was rumbling on both fronts but no action. Mother Nature would decide when to deliver.

The farmer’s market was piled high with red, yellow and purple beauties, the late harvest jewels more glittering than usual under a gray, brooding sky. People naturally talked about the weather. Even if you live in a place where the seasons are subtle each one brings some adjustment. Some looked forward to the rain. A decent storm might ease drought worries, wash off the dust, rinse the air and lure back the green. A significant start to the wet season would mean we could move inside, make tea, read books. Others grumbled that they weren’t ready to give up the warm golden days.

I talked about weather and babies to the woman who sold me a squash and a fistful of beets. Her family has a baby coming in January. We agreed it’s a good time to be looking forward to new life. I imagine we’re about the same age, grandmothers now who had our children back when people spoke of Zero Population Growth and the irresponsibility of bringing babies into a crowded, hungry world. Things haven’t improved much since. But people still grin when you tell them there’s a baby coming. Maybe because it’s another chance to do things right.

As my friend Marylu says, babies and the hokey pokey really are what it’s all about.

The get-ready phone call came at 6 in the morning and we lurched into baby mode, scrambling to fulfill our assigned roles. Ours was to go to our daughter’s house and be with the three-year-old while her parents went to the hospital. It was a false alarm. We returned to the garden project, planting tiny pieces of elfin thyme for the rain to encourage. The three-year-old came over in her yellow rain boots, ready for there to be puddles.

But first there would be a baby. The next morning we got the real-thing phone call. We headed for the hospital, with cards for the baby and banana muffins for the exhausted parents. The new big sister brought a bouquet of orange dahlias.

That night Mother Nature began to bluster and whistle and stomp. Trees bent over and some broke. Power lines went down. Roads flooded. The wet season officially arrived and it rained frogs and snails and puppy dogs’ tails, because that’s what little boys are made of.