Jonny McCambridge column: Learning how to wait until the storm blows itself out and then picking up the pieces after

I’m not sure if there are more storms than there used to be. In truth I’ve been writing stories about flooding incidents for as long as I’ve been a journalist.

But perhaps our awareness of what is coming, and how to deal with it is greater. Meteorological predictions are issued well in advance, the safety warnings from police advise us only to take journeys if it is necessary.

There is comfort in being inside with family when the predicted storm arrives. The fire in the front room brings warmth in the evening as the merciless rain pelts the window panes and the howling wind causes the front door to rattle and upends plant pots in the back garden.

There is always a thought of sympathy for those who are forced to be outside. In bed the blankets are pulled a little tighter than on other nights.

The following morning and the wind has eased but the rain shows no signs of exhaustion.

I have to run outside in my pyjamas and slippers to retrieve my son’s lunchbox from the car and am thoroughly drenched by the time I make it back inside.

My son’s habit is to practise his guitar before going to school. Of all the extra-curricular activities he has dabbled at, this is the one that he seems determined to stick with.

However, I can sense he is tense this morning, perhaps due to lack of sleep. As he selects the theme tune from Star Wars and places the music sheet on the little black stand I smile along encouragingly. I know he has played this piece several times before and is familiar with the melody.

He starts to play. At first it is fine, he concentrates hard on the notes and the correct positioning of his fingers.

But then he makes an error, plays the wrong note. He tells himself off and goes back to the beginning.

The second attempt is no more successful. I can see him beginning to get agitated because he wants to do it well. More mistakes flow and I can hear him muttering, ‘I could do it last week’ over and over.

A final attempt is made. He takes a moment, composes himself and plays. But he makes another error and the flood of tears and anger arrives, bursting forth like the pricked yolk of an egg. Amid the wailing, there is bitter self-criticism.

As a caring parent, I have to make a decision how to deal with this moment, how best to bring him comfort.

I’ve made so many mistakes before. I know there is no point meeting the anger head on. He is temporarily beyond reason and any words from me will deepen the turmoil, rather than assuage it.

I know that the risk is that I will also get upset and a pointless and destructive row will escalate. The last thing he needs is to see my hurt.

So, I do my best to keep smiling. I give him a quick cuddle before I carefully pack the discarded guitar away into its case.

I help him to clean his nose and face before shoes and coats are donned and we set off for school. It is only when we are well up the road that I finally judge it is the right time for some words.

“You know, I think you’re doing really well on the guitar son. You can’t be so hard on yourself."

“But I could play it last week daddy! I’m getting worse, I’m useless!”

I think about how to respond to this, aware that a wrong word could quickly make things worse. I try to be empathetic, to put it through the prism of my own failings and frustrations, my own sense of wishing I could be better.

So, I start to talk to my son about writing this column every week for the News Letter. How some weeks it comes easy, the ideas tumbling from my mind quicker than I can process them, the sentences emerging easily and perfectly formed like clay cups from a potter’s wheel.

I then tell him that other weeks it is a desperate struggle, that I can’t think of anything to write about, and that even when an idea or concept forms in my mind I can’t summon the words, the ideas or description to do justice to it.

"It’s not always a linear process,” I tell him. “Just when you think you’ve cracked it, that you know exactly what you’re doing, there will come a day when nothing seems to go the way you want and it’s all hard work.”

He’s silent for a few moments. I begin to wonder if I’ve said something utterly stupid. Then he speaks.

“But what do you do daddy when you have a day when you can’t write anything good? How do you get through that without getting angry?”

I’m pulling my car onto the street where his school is.

“Well, I do get annoyed sometimes,” I tell him. “But then I remind myself that it’s meant to be fun and that’s why I do it.”

I park the car. The rain on the windscreen is finally beginning to ease. I zip up my son’s coat so that only a small part of his face is showing. We run through the dwindling shower to the school gates, holding hands and laughing.

Then I hug him, holding on a bit longer than usual, before sending him off to meet another day.

The storms will always come. There is not much to be gained by running into the eye of a tempest. I prefer to wait until it blows itself out. Then I pick up the pieces after.