Last Friday, Hurricane Florence was kind of like a dead-beat dad.

Was she going to show? Was she not going to show? We seriously didn’t know.

We’d been sitting around the house off of school since noon on Wednesday.

Prepping a week’s worth of meals.

Stocking our freezer with bags of ice. 

Visiting our local library and checking out 48 different books we could read over what we expected to be days without power and water. (Because truly, there is no mama death like death from bored, complaining kids.) 

By Friday morning, when we were already supposed to be feeling the effects of the “hurricane of a lifetime,” we’d already built forts, created a Lego massage parlor, done every piece of laundry in the house and run the dishwasher three times. 

Our flashlights were filled with fresh batteries, our bath tubs were filled with water.

We’d even deep cleaned the house in anticipation of the filth we might be living in for the next week with four boys in one room with no electricity and no running water.

And still, Flo was a no-show.