It started, as most small domestic adventures do, with Sophie’s face — that pleading, wide-eyed expression that could turn even the hardest parent into a puddle.

“Playground?” she asked sweetly, chin tilted up, lips in a perfect pout of hope.

Monica sighed. That face had power. Ancient, dangerous power. “It’s wet out,” she warned, glancing toward the window where the rain still clung to the glass in long, reluctant streaks.

“That’s okay,” Sophie said, all dimples and confidence.

Monica considered her options. There were no pressing chores, no imminent meltdowns in sight. A reasonable parent would have said no — explained that puddles and parks were a poor match. But Monica had long since learned that reason and toddlers lived in entirely different universes.

“Well,” she said, with the resignation of someone who knows they’ve already lost, “okay.”

From there, chaos took over.

Lark — the family’s resident cat familiar and self-proclaimed household manager — was watching from the corner of the kitchen ceiling, clicking her mandibles in disapproval. “You’ll regret this,” she said in her precise little voice. Lark always sounded faintly British, though no one had ever taught him to speak.

“Probably,” Monica muttered.

The next half hour was a blur of parental logistics: sweaters debated, toy choices negotiated, baby Terra bundled into her stroller like a reluctant burrito. James, at five, was buzzing with energy and kept riding his trike in tight circles around the front hall, nearly clipping Alberta’s web twice.

“James,” Monica said through gritted teeth, “if you run over the spider again, she’s moving into your bed tonight.”

That bought her exactly thirty seconds of calm.

By the time they made it out the door, the clouds had parted, leaving behind that delicious after-rain smell — sharp, green, and earthy, the scent of everything briefly reborn. Sophie insisted on pushing her toy shopping cart the entire way, and she did so at the glacial pace of an elderly woman window-shopping through Walmart.

“Come on, honey,” Monica coaxed.

“I am,” Sophie said, affronted.

James had already reached the corner by then, calling back, “Race you!”

Sophie glared at him as if he’d committed treason. “No running!” she shouted — which was ironic, since she was incapable of it.

Lark rode on Monica’s shoulder now, his claws digging into the fabric of her sweater. “This outing will end in tears,” he said, with the certainty of someone who had seen centuries of poor decisions.

Monica just laughed. “Probably mine.”

The park was only a block and a half away, but it took nearly forty minutes. Sophie insisted on walking down the very middle of the road (“it’s smoother!”), and every passing car required a dramatic rescue operation. By the time they arrived, the puddles glimmered like small mirrors across the playground.

James didn’t care. He was off his trike and charging toward the slide before Monica could even shout his name. “It’s wet!” Sophie shrieked the moment she stepped onto the grass, horror dawning on her small face.

“I did warn you,” Monica said, already bracing herself.

Sophie pointed accusingly at the swing. “It’s dripping!”

“That’s what happens when it rains, sweetheart.”

“I don’t want it to be wet!”

And there it was: the tantrums were rolling in. Her little face twisted into the kind of operatic anguish that could rival Shakespeare. Monica recognized the signs — the trembling lip, the gathering tears, the sharp inhale that meant the wail was coming.

She crouched beside her, voice calm. “I know, honey. I get it. You were excited.”

Sophie didn’t answer. Her brow furrowed. That look appeared — the one she got when she was trying to use her untapped powers she had no control over.

“Uh-oh,” Lark murmured. “She’s doing the face.”

A faint shimmer pulsed around Sophie’s hands, then spread to the swing set. The air thickened. A moment later, a soft hiss rose from the metal — steam.

Monica’s eyes widened. “Oh no no no no—”

James laughed. “She’s making it hot!”

Indeed she was. The puddles began to ripple, evaporating under invisible heat. The slide glowed faintly, like it had swallowed the sun. Even the sandbox looked ready to bake cookies.

Monica tried to stay calm. She had no idea what kind of spell a tantrum could accidentally fuel, but she knew she didn’t want to find out.

“Hey, Sophie,” she said lightly, crouching lower. “Are you sad? Or mad? Or maybe both?”

“Yes!” Sophie cried, eyes still squeezed shut.

“Well, that’s okay,” Monica said. “Everyone gets mad. I get mad, Daddy gets mad, even Lark gets mad.”

“I do not,” Lark said crisply. “I get exasperated.”

“See?” Monica said. “Totally normal.”

She looked at Sophie’s jacket. “You know, I love your orange coat. Such a bright color.”

Sophie’s eyes popped open. “It’s pink!”

“Oh really? I could’ve sworn it was orange.”

“It’s PINK!” Sophie shouted — but now she was laughing, the tension broken. The shimmering heat began to fade, and the swing set gave a long, relieved creak.

“Better,” Lark said.

Monica exhaled. “Much.”

They wiped down one of the swings with a spare baby blanket, and Sophie, now perfectly content, climbed on. James zoomed by on his trike, pretending to be a dragon. Lark dangled from a tree branch, muttering to himself about “the volatility of human children.”

For a few minutes, the world was peaceful again — damp, messy, perfectly ordinary.

Monica smiled and pushed Sophie gently on the swing. “You know,” she said, “I think a little rain makes everything smell nicer.”

Sophie leaned back, letting her feet brush the air. “I don’t like it, it’s wet.”

Lark chuckled from her branch. “Both can be true.”

Monica nodded. “Exactly.”

And that was the lesson of the day — that sometimes the park is wet, the baby cries, the spider lectures you, and the three-year-old almost sets the playground on fire. But if you’re lucky, it all cools down eventually. You just have to let the steam out.