The rhythmical sound of something that dared to wake me from my deep sleep causes me to leap from my bed and agilely land on my toddler feet. Moving sneakily to the window, I grab anything that will make my short body reach at least to the tip of the window so that I can figure out the mystery of this continuous sound! I hop onto the stool and peer cautiously out my window and first, a wave of realization rushes through me like the water does in a leaky pan, and then an enthusiastic grin creeps across my still sleepy face, another day to spend in the rain. To a four year old the word rain means a whole day to splash from puddle to puddle, explore the dripping world in a new and exciting way, and to discover new critters that only reveal themselves when the ground is soggy.

I flee the room, not even bothering to change out of my perfectly comfortable purple and green pajamas, only to almost tumble down the staircase onto the stone hard entryway. I take cautious steps and gingerly place my hand on the banister. My mom, being the quick thinking lady that she is, has already placed my red rain boots that look like freshly picked cherries, by the door. Lying next to it is my banana yellow raincoat, a purple beach bucket, and a lime green shovel. My mom lifts my hood over my dark head of curls with a squeaky noise escaping from the fabric.

We step out onto the silent cul-de-sac and breath in the sweet spring air. I squint my eyes looking for the perfect puddle. I spot it and gleefully gallop towards it sending a tidal wave of water going in each direction. Once I reach it I squat down and watch as each unique rain drop lightly hits the calm surface of the puddle and perfect symmetrical ripples expand towards the edge of the now disturbed puddle. Something shifts in the depth of the puddle causing the ripples to become uneven. I snatch up my green shovel and purple bucket in one smooth motion and peer into the puddle looking for the source. One more movement from the puddle and my shovel is already plunged into the surface. I jerk the shovel back up to reveal a long, thin, water logged worm! At the age of four I was obsessed with saving any creature that appeared to be in any harm, so I hurriedly scooped out all of the worms and carefully laid them safely on a pile of dirt. I continued the same routine for about an hour, run/trip in my boots to an unexplored puddle, save the drowning worms, and hurry onto the next one. Like everyday around lunch time, four year olds get cranky and need a nap. So I was forced, by my drooping eyes, to stop my ambitious goal of saving all the helpless worms on my street until another glorious rainy day takes me by surprise.